


The Love Letter

by BeckyBubbles



Category: Anne of Green Gables (TV 1985) & Related Fandoms, Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Adventuring Together, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anne feels lost, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Gilbert Blythe is confused about his future, Love Letters, Mary Lives, Reluctant friends, Roody wedding, Slow Burn, anne and gilbert hate each other for no good reason, kids are in their 20s, time capsule
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 118,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25251193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeckyBubbles/pseuds/BeckyBubbles
Summary: When an old time capsule is opened, Anne discovers a love letter addressed to her among the mementos. Feeling unfulfilled, like life is passing her by, she decides to look for the boy who wrote the letter hoping he'll bring her adventure, assisted by Gilbert Blythe, her old classmate and sworn enemy.But the search for true love never runs smoothly.Will Anne find the rightful author before it’s too late?
Relationships: Diana Barry/Jerry Baynard, Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley, Mary Lacroix & Sebastian "Bash" Lacroix, Ruby Gillis & Moody Spurgeon MacPherson
Comments: 260
Kudos: 257





	1. Prologue: 'Sometimes we irritate each other a little bit. Maybe sometimes we take each other for granted.'

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovely dears!
> 
> I'm back with shirbert fanfic number 2.  
> Am I incapable of writing anything that doesn't have an alliterative title? Apparently so!
> 
> I don't know why I feel more anxious posting this fic than my first one, so the sentiment remains...I'm still an amateur so please be kind!
> 
> The chapter titles are derived from famous historical love letters, this one from Johnny Cash to June Carter, arguably one of the most beautiful letters of all time.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

**27 th June 2014**

It was a glorious summer’s day in Avonlea; the type of day in which the delicate heads of the cherry blossoms that lined the Avenue appeared to dance in the gentle breeze like a bride waltzing with her beloved under a brilliant, blue sky, and the water that crashed against the red-tinged cliff face twinkled as it settled into rippling waves, shimmering in the sunlight as it stretched out as far as the eye could see. It was the type of day where the bee’s ambled lazily from the head of one poppy to another, nectar drunk as they swayed to and fro, their wings beating busily, and the whole world appeared to burst with beautiful colour.

But inside Avonlea High School, the only indication to the wonderful weather outside was the strip of light that streamed through a stuffy upstairs window and illuminated the specks of dust that floated through the tense air of the English room. The atmosphere within it was frosty, a freak Antarctic winter that chilled the students seated at their desks as they watched with bated breath at their two classmates that stood at the front of the room, both facing each other, fists clenched and eyes narrowed, squaring off like knights with their lances raised, ready for the joust.

The air was thick, cloying with the type of tension that permeates the atmosphere during a thunderstorm just before the first crack of lightening splits the sky and sends the people on the ground scurrying, ducking for cover from the storm, much like the meek-minded Mr Lynde who cowered behind the sturdy oak desk, glancing between a red-haired girl with a scowling face and squared shoulders and a curly-haired boy with his eyebrow cocked and his lips pursed, both glaring at the other as they partook in this battle of wits. Mr Lynde was flustered; he regretted ever suggesting a spelling bee in the first place, thinking it would have been sentimental; a fun little nod to by-gone days on this class’ very last day of high school, but he should have known better. Anne Shirley-Cuthbert and Gilbert Blythe were both as sharp as a tack, the brightest in the school, and there was little chance of any other pupils being able to beat them at this game, which meant, of course, that for the past forty minutes the class had been silently witnessing Anne and Gilbert insult each other under the guise of a spelling test; Mr Lynde’s role in the operation becoming redundant about five minutes into the quiz, his list of tricky spellings that he created the night before now lying discarded on his desk, long forgotten about as Anne and Gilbert searched their minds for a word that was equal parts a slight and a challenge.

“Callous?” Anne shot at Gilbert; her bright blue eyes icy as they narrowed at him. He smirked, crossing his arms across his chest and cocking an eyebrow. If she thought she had beaten him, she would have to think again.

“C-A-L-L-O-U-S,” he replied and his friends broke out into cheers. He chuckled, glancing at them from the corner of his eye, Moody grinning at him, thrusting a thumbs-up in his direction. He returned his attention to Anne, who had her lips pursed as she frowned at him. “Exasperating?”

She scoffed, her cheeks enflamed to a bright red, almost the exact shade as the long russet braids that adorned her head, Gilbert noted with a cheeky smirk.

“E-X-A-S-P-E-R-A-T-I-N-G. Vexatious.”

Gilbert laughed a light, breathy laugh as though he found this the most humorous exchange in the world and Anne felt her teeth set, her hands ball into fists. “V-E-X-A-T-I-O-U-S. Honestly, Red, aren’t you supposed to be giving me a challenge?”

Anne glowered, her eyes flashing with annoyance at that horrible nickname; ‘Red’. She hated it, another thing to add to her long list of reasons why Gilbert Blythe was nothing but a thorn in her side; the most arrogant, disrespectful, insolent and…

“Insufferable.”

Anne seethed. “I-N-S-U-F-F-E-R-A-B-L-E.”

He grinned. “Correct.”

Anne paused momentarily, her mind searching for an appropriate word to describe him; how self-confident he was, swaggering around with that ridiculous grin, thinking he was God’s gift to the student population. “Hubristic,” she spat.

“Oh, touché,” he smirked, the velvety smoothness to his voice that drew swoons and giggles from the other girls making her explode with fury and flush with humiliation at the laugh his response had gained from their classmates. “H-U-B-R-I-S-T-I-C…Disputatious.”

Anne rolled her eyes, her teeth clenched as she cackled, “Ha! That’s a little hypocritical, isn’t it?”

It was a well-known fact that Anne never let Gilbert away with a thing in class; their long standing academic rivalry consistently disrupting class; Gilbert shrugging smugly as he tilted his paper towards her, displaying the bright red 100% scrawled in the top corner, Anne _accidentally_ dropping her essay in the aisle beside him and flicking it towards him as she picked it up, Mr Lynde’s writing in the top corner reading ‘ _Another excellent and insightful piece, Miss Shirley-Cuthbert. Well done! 50/50’._ They constantly challenged each other, be it in an exam or an essay; a friendly classroom debate that turned heated, fiery counter arguments being hurtled across the room as the others watched on with bated breath, afraid to offer their own ideas and take a side. Although, the truth was, Gilbert Blythe _loved_ to wind Anne up; to prod at her with small suggestions that countered her point or with a well thought argument that he interrupted her passionate ramblings with, his level, “Well, with all due respect, I have to say I disagree,” causing Anne to glare, eyes narrowed and cheeks flushed as she trembled with anger, their friends sucking in a sharp breath and glancing knowingly at each other, preparing themselves for the onslaught of verbal missiles that were about to be launched. There was something he found so satisfying about witnessing her round, blue eyes narrow; the twinkling ocean blue dissipating to the colour of a glacier. He felt a rush of adrenaline course though his blood as her ivory skin, brushed with a smattering of freckles, flushed as bright as a strawberry apple and clashed with the autumn hued hair that crowned her head, her chin jutting out indignantly. And it had _nothing_ to do with the queer little tremor that fluttered in his stomach when she turned her attention on him; that funny flurry of butterflies that settled low in his belly when she took notice of him, even if it was just to fix him with a stony gaze. Gilbert Blythe was a _scientist_ ; a purely mathematical, analytical brain, and he knew that he _detested_ Anne Shirley-Cuthbert with the whole of his being; or at least, with about 99% of his being. Sometimes he found himself becoming distracted by the shade of red her cheeks burned when she was lost in a fervent fit of temper or how he wished to smooth away the furrow that appeared between her brows when she argued with him with the flat of his thumb. Or, occasionally, when the light caught her hair _just_ right, it resembled an inferno and, despite never having an inclination for pyromania, Gilbert felt himself drawn to it like a moth, his eyes tracing the curls and waves as it spilled around her face and over her shoulders like tongues of fire, flushing and dragging his eyes away when he realised his gaze had lingered for a moment too long. But that didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t a _crush;_ it was merely admiration. A sense of satisfaction in finding her a worthy opponent; her level of intellect perfectly matched to his. Who suggested it was a crush? That was preposterous.

“D-I-S-P-U-T-A-T-I-O-U-S,” Anne rhymed, not missing a beat. Gilbert rolled his eyes at how she smiled, a smug grin flickering over her face as the girls whooped from their seats. She paused, tapping her chin mockingly, before countering with, “How about - narcissistic?”

It was Gilbert’s turn to glower, his hazel eyes restricting as he glared at Anne, the merry golden twinkle extinguishing so they appeared to be a dark, murky grey. Anne smirked, her smile tight as she watched him swallow dryly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. That one had cut him, she thought sanctimoniously; like a dagger slicing a ragged gash through the mirage of Gilbert Blythe, wounding his pride. She was glad; it only proved her point. There was nothing that narcissistic people hated more than being called narcissists.

He cleared his throat, his face growing hot with anger and something else that he couldn’t quite name; something that felt like embarrassment over her thinking that of him. It unsettled him, the opinion that she held that he was preening and vain; that he was someone with an over-inflated sense of self-importance. She failed to remember she was the one that had begun this; this silly little spat they had. This ridiculous rivalry that they bolstered every year, prodding at the hornets’ nest with a stick and waiting for the swarm to erupt.

“N-A-R-C-I-S-S-I-S-T-I-C,” he muttered, his jaw clenching, the muscle twinging as he ground his teeth. She squared her shoulders, her nose slicing the air as she thrust it upwardly, crossing her arms over her chest. His eyes flickered over her face; she thought she had him beat, he realised. She thought that insult would have disarmed him but, once again, she was mistaken. Two could play at her game.

“How about…,” he suggested, and he let his arms drop, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets as he tilted his head to the side, his tip of his tongue pressing to the roof of his mouth as his eyes roamed over Anne; trailing up over her white Chucks and short denim dungarees embroidered with large white daisies , before resting finally on her hair, those thick, red braids that tumbled over her shoulders. “Carrots?”

Anne felt her blood run cold, a frosty chill settle in her bones as her mouth pressed into a tight line; her heart thundering angrily in her chest. There was a sharp intake of breath from their audience; Mr Lynde mopping beads of sweat from his brow, Billy and the two Pauls sniggering behind their hands, Diana and Ruby gaping wide-eyed at Gilbert and Anne, ruminating on how this exchange may make their after school plans exponentially more uncomfortable for the group than they had previously anticipated, whilst Moody mumbled a quick prayer under his breath that Gilbert would walk away from this exchange alive. The rest of the class remained frozen, focussed on the boy and girl who faced-off at the front of the room before the large wooden desk as they recollected the fateful day the Shirley-Cuthbert-Blythe feud had begun; one of the most dramatic exchanges to have ever happened in the hallowed halls of Avonlea High School.

It was a truth universally acknowledged that every girl in Avonlea had once had a crush on Gilbert Blythe. All except one. And maybe that was why the feud had begun; Anne’s red-headed temper the initial shot fired over No Man’s Land, with Gilbert’s pride taking the hit, an immediate causality that triggered a retaliation; both camps projecting no prospect of a ceasefire, no white flag of surrender raised high over their trench.

Anne had arrived in Avonlea five years previously, during the long summer holiday; the same summer that Gilbert had spent on a ‘boy’s trip’ in Alberta with his dying father and his adopted brother, his father wanting to spend his last year alive filled with adventure and happy memories with the two young men he loved so dearly. And because of that holiday, spent high in the Rocky mountains camping with his family and listening to Kenny Roger’s in his dad’s vintage Mustang, Gilbert wasn’t aware that the elderly Cuthberts had adopted a girl; a bright thirteen-year-old, full of charm and whimsy, who made friends quickly, enchanting the town with her expressive eyes and awed wonder. On their first day back to school, as Gilbert trudged through the park with his head hanging low, pondering on the momentous incident that he was to face, an outbound train that his father would embark on with no prospect of a return, and how, no matter how hard he prayed, he wouldn’t be able to stop it, he found himself drawn from his reverie by the sound of a lilting voice singing a bright song. He glanced around him, searching for the voice and its owner and found a strange girl in a clearing, hidden behind a thicket of spindling trees with bright purple blooms, her fiery red hair plaited into two thick braids as she sang sweetly, her hand grazing the rough bark as she encircled the trunk. He laughed gently as he watched her; she seemed to be at one with the land, twirling over the grass so deftly Gilbert imagined her feet hadn’t touched the ground at all, that she was a winged creature; a faerie who had floated from her perch amongst the branches. As he watched her skip and twirl, he felt himself become light, the heavy knot of anxiety and grief that settled low in his belly evaporating, the youth he had lost the day his father sat him and his brother down, taking a hand in each of his own and explaining his diagnosis as gently and succinctly as possible as Gilbert cried silent tears, returning to him. At the sound of his chuckle, the fay spun on her heel, turning abruptly towards him, her skin flushing red with mortification at the handsome face with a twisted smile she found peeking at her from behind a small gathering of lilac trees. 

“You’re laughing at me,” she shot angrily, her cheeks hot with humiliation, angry tears forming in her eyes.

“What? No! I…”

“Why don’t you take a picture? It will last longer.” And she snatched her bag from the ground and slung it back onto her shoulders, stalking past Gilbert with her nose upturned, not paying him a second glance. He watched her amble down the lane, a bright blur of red hair and blue jeans. He gulped back, the spell her song had put him under remaining unbroken. “Excuse me?” he found himself call after her and, as though he was a rusted steel nail drawn to her magnetic field, he found himself chase her, his legs propelling him forward, desperate to find out more about the wild stranger who spoke to the trees.

“Wait! Who are you?” he called, and when she didn’t respond, he urged, “What, you can’t tell me your name?”

She had continued to ignore him through their morning classes, despite his attempts to get her to glance his direction, lobbing balled up pieces of paper across the aisle between them; the crumpled notes settling upon her open book, where she flicked them casually with the side of her hand, swatting them to the floor. He sighed; he would have to get information from someone else, deciding he would ask the boys about the new girl. When he approached them, attempting to appear nonchalant and unbothered by the school’s new arrival, they informed him that she was the Cuthberts’ new kid and her name was Anne. He smiled as he savoured her name on his tongue; ‘Anne’. It was a pretty name but strong. He liked the feel of it in his mouth, how his lips stretched when he formed it. So, armed with his new information and his most charming smile, the one that elicited a giggle from the other girls, their laughter echoing off the walls and bouncing back like a pack of hyenas as they blushed at his attention, he sought her out in the canteen, sidling beside her in the lunch line and offering her a second tray he had picked up _accidentally_ on purpose.

“Hi, Anne,” he began, his grin bright. He saw her eyes flicker his direction before fixing upon the choice of meals under the polished glass that was displayed before them. Hmm, the silent treatment. Well, he would have to work a little harder to undo that. “Oh, silly me! I lifted two trays instead of one. Do you need one?”

He offered the grey, plastic tray to her, proffering it with a shy smile. Her eyes met his, her expression unyielding, before dropping to the tray. She took it begrudgingly from his grasp and he grinned. Progress was progress, no matter how small.

“So, the boys were telling me you live with the Cuthberts now?” He paused, waiting for an answer but she was so unmoved by his attempts at conversation that he thought perhaps she didn’t hear him. “That’s really cool. The Cuthberts are lovely people.”

He cleared his throat awkwardly as she advanced in the line, taking a tentative step to stay close to her without invading her space. He had already followed her to school; he didn’t want her thinking he was some sort of lovesick _fool_ with an instantaneous crush. It was more of an _inquisitiveness_ ; a desire to find out more about the girl with the large, limpid eyes that seemed to shy away from him as he neared her, her back rigid and her face tense, two high spots of red appearing on her cheeks.

“My brother is adopted too. My dad adopted him when he was seventeen. He’s 22 now though; there’s a pretty big gap between us.” He chuckled softly, shuffling awkwardly as she continued to ignore him. Gilbert wasn’t arrogant but he was certainly not used to being ignored by the female population of Avonlea High School. He normally found a gaggle of girls lingering in the hallway after the bell, leaning against the wall and whispering animatedly if he glanced their direction as he passed, or filling the stands when he was out on the field during soccer practice, cackling as one mustered up the courage to shout “Nice legs, Gilbert!”, Gilbert flushing bright red and tugging at the hem of his shorts as he jogged about the pitch. His main mission was to hide away from female attention, not to make an idiot of himself to gain it, yet here he was, forcing an awkward, one-sided conversation with a girl with a pretty oval face and large blue eyes who piqued his curiosity. He felt his hand brush at the nape of his neck, his fingers ghost over the cropped curls at the back of his head as he contemplated his next move; what tack he would take in order to win a word from her. “Hey – I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to make it awkward or – or anything.”

But still she remained stoic, handing her plate across to the plump, round-faced dinner lady who grinned at her from the other side of the counter.

“What can I get you, duck?” she asked and Anne surveyed the food before her.

“Could I have shepherd’s pie, please?” The dinner lady began loading Anne’s plate with a spoonful of the mushy mixture. “And could I have peas, please, instead of carrots?”

Gilbert chuckled beside her. “Peas instead of carrots?” he questioned, his mouth twisting into a teasing smile as his mind formulated a plan to gain her attention, a flirtatious little gesture which was sure to endear her to him. His eyes flickered from her face to her hair, his hand reaching out, fingers clamping around one of her thick braids and tugging gently as he quipped, “I thought you would rather _carrots_.”

Anne’s eyes widened, her teeth clenching together as she spun towards Gilbert, lifting her tray in a trembling hand and, without pausing, striking him across his face with a loud _thwack!,_ Gilbert stumbling side-ways, his tray clattering to the floor noisily as his hand came up to cup the red, stinging skin on his cheek.

“What was that for?” he asked wildly, his brow furrowed as he watched her skin pale to a ghostly white, her eyes drop to the tray in her hand before letting it slip from her fingers, falling to the floor with an echoing _bang_. She gulped back, her round gaze surveying the curious faces who watched on, hushed voices whispering to each other, “Was that _Gilbert Blythe_ she just hit?” and “What a _loon!_ ”

Anne reeled backwards, stumbling away from him, her eyes wide and wounded, before bolting from the canteen, pushing through the glass panelled doors and away from the whispering voices and inquisitive stares. Gilbert flushed as he peered around the room at his school friends, laughing hollowly to disguise his embarrassment over the exchange. He was hurt, he realised; his pride sustaining a fatal blow. He felt so foolish, pushing her to speak to him when she obviously didn’t want to. Yet, he was drawn to her; something in her posture or her eyes, or how eloquently she spoke out in class, that made him feel she was _his_ type of person, someone he could easily have been friends with. He bent to pick up the discarded trays from the sticky, yellowed tiles, his eyes trained on the ground to hide the sting of the mortified tears that prickled uncomfortably at his lash line; hot and humiliated. He straightened back up, placing the trays on the counter top and shrugging at the sea of onlookers, a swift dropping of his shoulders that he hoped they read as ‘ _what do I care’,_ before he slunk from the queue, shouldering through the doors Anne had pushed through only moments before; the students erupting with laughter as he left. Gilbert felt his blood boil; he was a laughingstock now, all because of her short temper and childish reluctance to speak to him. Well, she needn’t worry. He wouldn’t try to be her friend again. In fact, for as long as she loathed him, he would return the sentiment. If she wanted a fight, that was fine. He was willing to rage a war.

And after five long years, their mutual disdain remained, Anne still unwilling to forgive him for his slight. Anne _hated_ her hair; it was her least favourite thing in the world, but she was surprised to find she hated Gilbert Blythe even more, embroiling him in sizzling spats in their classroom and freezing him out afterwards when Moody insisted the boys tag along to whoever’s house they were gathering in that evening.

“Well, what do you think, Red?” Gilbert teased, his mouth quirking into the semblance of a smile, his cheek dimpling as he watched her eyes flicker with the phantom of the same memory he had just been lost in. “Can you spell carrots or not?”

Anne thrust her nose into the air, and, refusing to be beaten, uttered through gritted teeth, “C-A-R-R-O-T-S. Now, let _me_ think…can you spell ‘ _fuck you’_?”

She stormed from the front of the room, ignoring the gasps and giggles from their audience, disregarding Mr Lynde’s calls of, “Miss Cuthbert, there is no need for such language,” as she collected her satchel and cardigan from her seat and flounced from the room, the door closing behind her with an audible _bang!_

Diana and Ruby exchanged a worried glance with Moody. They had made plans for after school, today being the last day of their high school education, and they wished to celebrate the friendships and memories they had created together; however, in order for the whole gang to attend, some little white lies had to be told. Anne was blissfully unaware that Gilbert was attending and he remained oblivious to Anne being a part of the group who would be making an appearance at their gathering that afternoon. Ruby worried her lip between her teeth; it would have been uncomfortable enough with Anne and Gilbert together on a normal day, but after such an explosive argument they would be able to slice the tension with a knife, the rest of the group walking on eggshells around them; fearful to create another stick that would stoke the fire, a fresh argument exploding from the embers in great, licking flames.

Diana drummed her fingers agitatedly on the table, drawing her gaze from where Anne had exited and back towards Gilbert who remained at the front of the room, Mr Lynde grumbling to Gilbert about how they never knew when to quit and how he wouldn’t stand for having such an aggressive display in his classroom, although Gilbert wasn’t listening. His eyes remained fixed on the door that Anne had just disappeared through, his face wearing an expression of dumbstruck awe.

**********

Anne paced back and forth along the grass of the quad that stretched behind their school, her bag slung to the floor, her hands dug into her hair, fingernails clawing at her scalp agitatedly. Oh, how she _hated_ Gilbert Blythe; how cruel did he have to be to drag that horrid insult back up again, to poke fun at one of her greatest insecurities. She only stilled, her rushed, heavy steps desisting, when she spotted Diana and Ruby race across the grass, both flushed and breathless when they came before her, Ruby gasping as she dropped to her knees.

“Well?” Anne demanded, her eyes searching their rosy faces for an indication of what happened after she stormed from the room. “Am I in trouble?”

“Surprisingly, no,” Diana gasped, her laughter tinkling. “Although Mr Lynde did chew into poor Gilbert for a while.”

“ _Poor_ Gilbert?” Anne questioned, incredulous. “ _Poor_ Gilbert! What about poor Anne? I can’t _believe_ he slung ‘carrots’ at me again? I thought we had passed that.”

“Honestly, Anne,” Ruby murmured from the earth, her hands fidgeting at the head of a daisy she had picked. “I think he was just trying to be funny.”

“At _my_ expense!” Anne cried. “He is the singular most _hateful_ person I have ever come across before in my _life!_ ”

“Even worse than Billy Andrews?” Diana quizzed teasingly. Anne considered this for a moment. Billy Andrews was a buffoon; he was stupid and lazy and definitely arrogant, but she couldn’t quite recall a time when he had done anything _directly_ to offend her.

“Even worse than Billy Andrews,” she confirmed, nodding firmly.

“Or Roy Gardner?” Ruby prompted slyly.

Roy Gardner was the school’s golden boy, the self-professed “best looking boy in school” and it would have been difficult to argue with that; he was all rippling muscle and chiselled cheekbones, dark hair and warm, brown eyes. He was, however, also a complete narcissist, drowning in his own self-importance. Anne thought him handsome, yes, and also vain and somewhat stupid, but did she hate him as much as Gilbert Blythe? No, she did not, especially when Roy was courteous to her, always smiling kindly and showering her with compliments; his flirtations often driving her mad in their intensity.

“ _Or_ Roy Gardner,” she concluded.

Ruby giggled from her spot on the grass, Anne and Diana both settling beside her, Diana sitting primly, her legs curled beneath her, her hands folded on her lap, Anne sitting cross-legged, leaning back on her hands and tilting her head towards the sun. She sighed, allowing the warmth to wash through her, to melt the frosty frigidness that had crystallised her blood ever since Gilbert’s insult, but found the peaceful silence that had settled between them shattering with the yelling of deep, masculine voices, and the thundering of heavy feet. Anne’s eyes snapped open, her head swivelling to spot Charlie, Billy, Moody, Cole and the two Pauls jog onto the grass, passing a battered black and white football between them. Anne sulked as Billy took up a spot close to them, just a few feet away, stopping the ball with his left foot and lobbing it away towards Charlie with his right. Moody grinned at them, his hand lifting shyly into a wave that Ruby reciprocated.

“You two are too sweet,” Diana gushed, watching Moody stumble after the football that had been kicked passed him when he had been preoccupied by Ruby. Ruby blushed prettily, her creamy skin flushing a sweet petal pink as she watched him, her eyes following his tall frame as he scampered back onto the grass, lobbing the ball towards Cole, who stopped it nervously and gave it a shy kick.

“Moody’s the best,” she agreed, before tangling each of her friends’ hands in her own. “I wish you both had someone who loved you as much. There’s no better feeling in the world.”

She beamed as Diana squeezed her hand. “I do, don’t I?” she laughed. And it was true; although it was very new, Diana and Jerry were taking those first apprehensive steps that began a relationship. It was obvious that he had had a crush on her for a while and she finally plucked up the courage to follow her heart and see where it led them. Anne scoffed, rolling her eyes.

“Some of us don’t need a man to feel complete,” she reasoned. “I might as well let you know now that I plan on being the bride of adventure.”

Ruby chuckled. “ _Sure, Jan,”_ she quipped smugly, her round face beaming, the apples of her cheeks a jolly pink as Diana giggled beside her.

“What? I am!” Anne argued.

“Anne, you are the second most romantic out of all of us. _You_ are not going to be some old maid for the rest of your life. Mark my words; there will be a time in your life when you will be _desperate_ for something romantic to happen to you,” Diana contended.

“I imagine something already would, if you’d just let it,” Ruby agreed and she shrunk away from a Diana’s withering stare.

Anne watched their exchange curiously. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

“Well…it’s just… Uhm, Diana said…” Ruby stuttered, her face flushed and eyes wide, cursing herself for beginning the conversation in the first place and having to face Anne’s wrath.

“Gilbert has a crush on you,” Diana interjected, swatting at Ruby’s leg playfully.

“What? No, he doesn’t!” Anne shot heatedly. “And like _I_ would ever have a crush on _him!_ We hate each other, or has that escaped your notice?”

“Well, I thought as much too, but Anne, you should have seen how he stared after you today. I’m certain that if Mr Lynde hadn’t been speaking to him, he probably would have raced after you.”

“No.”

“Haven’t you ever considered it?” Diana asked.

“ _No.”_

“Well, I think he does,” Ruby piped up, her hands brushing softly over the blades of grass, allowing them to tickle at her palms. “Sometimes I’m not sure whether he wants to murder you or kiss you in class.”

“You’ve both lost your minds,” Anne huffed breathily, shaking her head to rid the image of Gilbert Blythe taking her in those strong, muscular arms, pressing her body flush to his as he claimed her lips in a kiss. She swallowed thickly, tilting her face back towards the sun, hoping the girls didn’t notice the prickling red that bloomed across her collarbones and trailed up her neck. “I am _not_ a Gilbert Blythe fan. If he was thrown after me in the street I wouldn’t even look around to see what the noise was.”

“Anne!” the girls giggled.

Anne smiled smugly. “I wouldn’t. He’s my sworn enemy; I will _never_ forgive his insult and I will never be dissuaded from my low opinion of him. And I most certainly do not have a _crush_ on h…”

The old soccer ball smacked into her side, Anne snapping her eyes open and staring down at it. A large hand reached out and swept the ball up into a pair of toned, muscular arms, Anne swallowing thickly as she followed the long limbs; black Vans Old Skools and grey faded jeans, a dusky blue t-shirt stretched over a broad chest, the football tucked into the crook of his elbow as he stared down at her, his brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of something she had never seen before cross his eyes.

Anne flushed; it was Gilbert. Just when did he arrive and how much did he hear?

And as he sprinted back towards the boys, dropping the ball to his feet and kicking it high over the field, she realised what it was. It was _hurt._ She had hurt him.

Good, she thought as she watched him sprint across the grass, racing towards the ball that had been kicked his direction. Didn’t he deserve it?

**********

Gilbert had been distracted for the rest of their game. He fumbled when he was passing the ball and tripped when he tackled the others. He didn’t know what was wrong with him but he was certain it had something to do with what he had overheard Anne talk about with her friends.

He didn’t have a crush on Anne. Yes, sometimes his blood raced a little too quickly when she looked at him, and, if she ever forgot herself and didn’t drop her smile as she glanced past him, he liked to imagine that the smile was for him and it made him feel joyous for the rest of the day, but all of that stemmed from his desire to be her _friend_. That was all he ever wanted; for them to lower their weapons and meet in No Man’s Land, hands above their heads in a gesture of surrender.

Gilbert had friends _,_ Moody being his best, but they were strange sort of friendships; a half a dozen conflicting personalities mingling together for the sake of not being _alone._ Gilbert always felt alone; after his dad had passed two years previously, he only had himself and his brother, and despite loving Bash wholeheartedly, he longed for someone different to talk to; a listening ear who could provide a fresh perspective on the trials he faced. He knew none of the boys could provide him with this; none of them understood the grief he felt and the majority lacked the empathy to _try_ to. He knew who could but, based on what he had just overheard, there was no chance of them ever being close enough to talk; to be more than just sparring partners. The thought injured him, a sharp stab deep in his chest that caused him to flinch, but he shrugged it off, clapping Moody on the shoulder as the bell trilled to signify the end of their game. He watched Anne get to her feet gracefully, her long limbs exposed in her shorts, and pace back towards the building as Billy came up behind him.

“Did you _hear_ what they were saying about you?” he asked, his pompous face coloured beet red wih anger and over-exertion at their game.

Gilbert laughed mirthlessly, his voice hollow. “Yeah.”

“You should give her a taste of her own medicine, bud. Put her in her place.”

“Why would I do that?”

“She’s talking shit about you and you’re just going to lie down and take it? C’mon bud, like you would ever want that scrawny thing.”

Gilbert glanced from Billy to the football he passed between his hands. Billy wasn’t the type of person Gilbert would have chosen to befriend if he had a greater pool of people to pick from. He was often cruel and extremely sneaky, pulling practical jokes on the girls constantly, but always too tactile to be caught. He was rude and pompous with a superiority complex, tending to think himself better than the others because of the money he was born into, but still Gilbert, along with the rest of the boys, were friends with him; an odd sort of friendship that saw them gaggle together based on a mutual enjoyment of football and not much else, often differing on values and opinions. But it was Billy Andrews or Roy Gardner, the school Adonis, who would definitely have dated himself if he was able to, and the boys went for the more bearable option and joined Billy’s posse, remaining tight lipped when Billy targeted Anne or the others for fear of them becoming victims of his wrath themselves. It _bothered_ Gilbert, how Billy treated the girls, especially Anne, as much as he disliked her, but he knew there was little point in intervening. As she liked to remind him at least twice a day, she was perfectly capable of handling things herself; an intercession from Gilbert would do more harm than good, so he, like the others, turned a blind eye to Billy’s taunts. He had lost enough people in his life; his mother, his father, two siblings, _Anne._ He didn’t want to make a habit of pushing away those who wished to be his friend. High school was about survival, right? You just had to lay low until the final bell sounded, signifying the ordeal to be over. That bell would be today for Gilbert, and then he was Toronto bound, waving goodbye to Avonlea; to old school rivalries and false friends.

Billy pushed into him. “Well, are you?” he urged. Gilbert looked around his friends faces, all of them reflecting back to him the nervousness he felt as Billy jostled him. “What are you going to do about it, bud?”

Gilbert swallowed. “What did you have in mind?” he croaked, passing the ball from one hand to another.

“Well,” Billy sneered. “I’m glad you asked. You see, everyone knows it’s always the desperate ones who say they don’t want a boyfriend. They’re normally just trying to disguise the fact that they’re too ugly to get one.”

And so perhaps it was peer pressure that had Gilbert hunched over his notebook, penning a love letter to Anne detailing her to meet him by the derelict farmhouse that was hidden behind the park, luring her into a trap where she would find Billy with water balloons. Perhaps it was that final push to survive, a few more hours and this whole experience would be over, but he was not naïve enough to think that Billy wouldn’t be capable of making them hell if he resisted him at this stage. Perhaps it was his own wounded pride; a need to inflict on her the hurt she had just inflicted on him, insisting she could never care for him, speaking about him like he was the dirt beneath her feet.

Or perhaps, secretly, deep down in his chest, it was a desire for her to know that he did feel that way about her; the words flowing easily from his pen without him having to pay them a second thought.

Perhaps it was one of those things, or a combination of them all, but as Billy Andrews slipped the love letter into Anne’s locker, Gilbert watched anxiously, his shoulders sinking with the weight of what the letter held and the hurt that it may cause Anne; he felt heavy with the notion that someday that letter may rise from the earth and come back to haunt him.

**********

At four o’clock in the afternoon, after the school bell had trilled for the very last time and the Avonlea High School seniors were wished the best for the future before they were dismissed, Anne, Ruby and Diana raced through Avonlea towards the park, where they were to meet Moody, Charlie and Gilbert along with Josie, Jane and Tillie. Moody had found an old trunk in his parents’ attic; a hefty wooden one that Ruby and Anne had painted with daisies and butterflies, white lettering reading _Avonlea High Class of 2014_ on the lid. They had decided to create a time capsule; to fill it with treasured things that reminded them of their high school experiences that they could look back on and laugh over a few years into the future. Anne had selected her items carefully, excited for the prospect of sharing their stories with her friends before burying them deep in the ground. Or at least, she had been excited until Ruby and Diana explained _he_ would be there, approaching her cautiously as she cleared the last items from her locker. She was shoving an old lunchbox into her satchel when they neared her.

“So,” Diana began, taking Ruby’s hand in hers, “we decided to spring this on you so you don’t have time to back out and since we are about to leave, it seems like the perfect time.”

Anne laughed. “What are you talking about?”

“Gilbert’s going to be at the time capsule burial,” Ruby squeaked, her large blue eyes going wide as Anne’s face flushed angrily.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she hissed. “I went to all that bother picking everything out and writing myself a letter and I can’t even _go_ now.”

“You _can_ go,” Diana pleaded. “Even just for an hour? Please?”

Anne had relented, sulking as her arm swept the contents of her locker into her open bag, slamming the door and locking it for the last time before traipsing behind the girls, out across the quad and onto the street in the direction of the park.

The others had already gathered when they had arrived, Moody, Charlie and the girls greeting them gaily, Anne hugging them in turn. She froze when she reached Gilbert, her eyes narrowing as he seemed to recoil from her, shrinking back into himself, his hands fidgeting. Anne eyed him curiously. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought he looked _guilty_ but for what she couldn’t say. Instead she turned from him and led the group deep into the park to her favourite tree, Gilbert and Charlie hefting the trunk between them, where they dug a deep hole at the base of the trunk, Anne fretfully pacing, begging them to be careful not to damage the roots. When the hole was dug, Moody threw the trunk open with a flourishing, “Ta-da!”, and the gang began placing their mementos in among the pale blue velvet Anne had lined it with.

Josie filled it with pictures of prom and her prom queen sash (her crown was still pride of place on her dresser), Jane with a CD she created of music she currently enjoyed, photographs of school trips and days they spent on the cliffs and Tillie with fashion magazines she was currently reading and a memory jar she had created, filled with tiny, hand-written notes detailing one thing that had happened to her each day that year.

Moody, Charlie and Gilbert placed their jerseys from Avonlea High’s soccer team in; Moody also adding the very first Valentine’s card Ruby had written him, and a photograph taken on their first date. Charlie added in photographs of days they spent riding their bikes or skipping rocks along the water as it lapped onto the beach, while Gilbert added a copy of the newspaper, a list of things he wished to have achieved by the time they reopened it and a jotter he completed assignments in during his last year of school.

Diana, Anne and Ruby had made a pact to include photographs and souvenirs that reminded them of their friendship; Anne’s cards from the time they had celebrated Beltane, flower crowns they had made from silk flowers, old dresses they used as costumes when playing make believe and a photo album filled with their favourite moments together. And just before they snapped the lid closed, Anne stopped them.

“Oh, wait!” she cried, Moody pausing before fixing the clasp. “I have one more thing.”

She dropped to her knees, rummaging through her satchel for the letter she had written, a letter to her future self, detailing all her hopes and dreams; things she wished she would have achieved by the time the lid was peeled open again; a degree in English, a job in a reputable newspaper, _maybe_ a boyfriend of her own. She felt her fingers close around the smooth, cream envelope she had tucked her letter into, sealed with a glittering butterfly sticker, and she lifted it out hurriedly, pressing a kiss to it, before slipping it in among the other items, the lid snapping shut and the boys lowering the trunk deep into the hole they have created.

“So, when do we open it again?” Josie asked, glancing around the group.

“How about when the first of us does something grown up?” Tillie commented.

“Like what?” Anne asked, her face screwed in confusion. Doesn’t everyone mature at different rates? Wouldn’t what was ‘grown up’ for one be different for another? She already felt _grown up_ ; she had felt it since her first period, when Marilla allowed her to host a tea party with her friends where she had accidentally served currant wine and experienced a hangover for the first time, she remembered, her stomach churning at the memory.

“How about when the first of us get married?” Ruby suggested, and at the collective groan, her round cheeks bloomed pink, her hand slipping into Moody’s as she retorted, “Well, when else would we all come together again?”

Anne scoffed, her eyes finding Gilbert, and she flushed hotly when she noticed he was already watching her, his head tilted slightly to one side, his eyes searching her face as though he was trying to decipher her thoughts. She threw back her shoulders, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared him down. If he was having the same thought as her, he certainly didn’t look it. He looked almost _nervous,_ as he eyed her. Anne scowled; it was not outside the realm of possibility that _she_ herself may have been the first to get married and there was one person amongst their party who certainly would _not_ be invited. There was _no_ chance that Gilbert Blythe would be amongst the congregation on the day she said her vows.

“Well?” Ruby prompted, distracting Anne from her dark thoughts.

“No,” she answered hastily.

“When do _you_ suggest then?” Ruby huffed.

“I don’t know.”

“Then it’s agreed,” Moody interjected. “When the first of us are to be married, we’ll come together again and dig the time capsule out of the ground.”

He reached his hand out in front of him, glancing around the group expectantly. “All in favour?”

Charlie grumbled but reached his hand out, placing it on top of Moody’s, followed by a squeaking Ruby and the girls, Gilbert hesitantly adding his to the top of the pile of layered hands.

“Anne?” Josie urged.

Anne rolled her eyes, sighing heavily as she slapped her hand down on top of Gilbert’s, noting how he jerked momentarily when she did. She flushed, glancing at him below her lashes before looking away, eyeing at how he stared at their hands, her’s small in comparison with his, his skin smooth and cool under her touch.

“Ok, so we all agree,” Ruby squeaked.

“Yes,” Anne mumbled, the others nodding their agreement.

“Good,” Moody confirmed. “On three then. One, two, three – break!”

The group pressed their hands together, Gilbert swallowing nervously as Anne’s skin brushed against his, before they pulled them away, raising them to the sky, Gilbert drawing his hand from Anne’s swiftly as through she had branded him, a searing heat emanating from her palm and burning itself into his skin. He rubbed the back of his hand against his jeans distractedly, realising it was the first time she had ever touched him. Funny, he thought, that it should happen on the last day they would potentially see each other. He knew the others would have plans for the summer but he wouldn’t be there if Anne was. They created an atmosphere, him and Anne, stewing on opposite sides of the room, the others dancing around them so as to not cause a scene. It wasn’t fair on the group.

“Hey, Gil, give us a hand, will you?” Charlie called, thrusting a shovel into his hands.

He took it willingly, lifting the dark, red earth and dropping it on top of the trunk, specks of gravel sprinkling on top of the wood with a quiet patter, not stopping until the time capsule was buried deep in the ground.

**********

At nine that evening, just as dusk began to settle over Avonlea park, the bright blue sky warming to a golden yellow, peppered with orange streaks and pink tinged clouds, Gilbert, Charlie, Cole and Moody stooped behind a hedge row, waiting for Billy and the Pauls to return from the scour they were making of the park, stomping back behind the hedgerows with scowls on their faces.

Billy kicked at the bucket of water balloons he had brought with him, toppling it, the sticks scattered on the mossy ground beneath pressing into the latex and causing the colourful globes to leak cool water.

“The bitch didn’t turn up,” he grimaced, his face purple with rage. Gilbert let the breath he had been holding go, hissing softly into the warm summer air, relief filling him. He wiped at his brow, pushing the curls that fell against his forehead back.

It was for the best, he thought. He had watched her while they buried the capsule, drinking in her every gesture, each look she threw his way, trying to decipher whether there was a change in her; a rosy glow of first love blooming over her cheeks from the anticipation of her meeting with the author of the letter. And she _was_ glowing, he noticed, but not because of a love letter; the sun dappling across her skin, illuminating her freckles like constellations, the loose tendrils of her hair swaying gently in the breeze like the flickering flame of a church candle. He didn’t know what she had thought of his love letter, he couldn’t read her and he certainly didn’t hear her mention it to any of the girls, but he was thankful her curiosity didn’t get the better of her; that it didn’t lead her to the old ruined farmhouse, hidden behind the dense trees in the park, where an ambush was waiting.

“What are you grinning at?” Billy grumbled, shoving into him and sending Gilbert scattering back onto his behind.

“Nothing,” he answered hotly, and he scrambled to his feet, dusting down his jeans with a swift swipe of his hands.

He had been sick with anxiety since the letter had been posted into Anne’s locker earlier that day. He couldn’t even bring himself to be smart with her when she arrived unexpectedly at the park, her bag full of items for the time capsule. But now all he felt was unadulterated gladness that Anne was too clever to be foiled into chasing after the author of a ridiculous love letter. That the love letter would disappear into history as a foolish thing he had once done and would never be unearthed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the notes.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, if you have managed to make it this far, and let me outline some plot points.
> 
> Yes, Bash and Gilbert were raised as brothers. I couldn't think of another valid reason for Bash to live with Gilbert, so he too was adopted and is legally a Blythe (although he does keep his own surname)
> 
> Also, Roy does go to school with them and he may creep up again but not as a love interest for Anne, you'll be pleased to know. 
> 
> And if anyone (ahem, Gilbert) is behaving a little ooc by your standards I did try to justify each of his thoughts and actions. He is just a kid, after all.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this taster for the main story. It serves as some background and a set up for the action.  
> If you feel so inclined, do drop a comment; I love to get them and read your thoughts, feelings and opinions.
> 
> And if you would like to, follow me on my socials;  
> Twitter: @chaos_in_calm  
> Tumblr: @beckybubbles
> 
> Until next time!  
> Becky x


	2. Chapter One: 'Oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that…You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love.'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert returns to Avonlea and the gang dig up the time capsule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there!
> 
> Apologies for a late update, I was hit pretty hard with writers block early into this one. It is not great but I wanted to post something.
> 
> We’ve flashed forward and in this universe 2020 isn't the absolutely manic reality we face every day. Imagine governments actively trying to slow climate change, decent politicians, no Covid-19…Can you imagine it? It’s nice, right?
> 
> That’s this universe.
> 
> This chapter title is an excerpt from a letter from Zelda Fitzgerald to her husband, F. Scott Fitzgerald.
> 
> Enjoy!

**June 2021**

It was a dull summers day in Avonlea; the type of day in which great, grey clouds rolled in over the cliffs, casting the town in shadow, ominous with the threat of rain. It was the type of day where the air was muggy, thick with the heaviness that lingers just before a thunderstorm, the low-pressure causing beads of perspiration to break across foreheads and clothes to cling to sweat-slick bodies. The type of day where everything appears murky and grey and listless, devoid of life and joy.

Anne sat on her blue swivel chair; her chin propped in her hand as she stared out the window, tapping her pen distractedly against the top of her cluttered desk.

“Shall we take bets on when the rain will start?” she asked, turning from the window to face the other people in her office; Charlie Sloane hunched over his desk, typing furiously, Ka’kwet doodling idly in her notepad, a half finished article open on her screen, the curser blinking, anticipating her next words. Anne had finished her latest article for _The Avonlea Gazette_ already and handed it to her editor for approval. It wasn’t her usual beat, far from the articles on crop rotation and what type of fertiliser is the best for a healthy yield of crops she normally wrote but she prayed he would approve it; see value in the people of Avonlea reading what she had written.

“What’s in it for the winner?” Ka’kwet quizzed, glancing up at Anne, her pretty face split into a wide grin.

“A Diet Coke from the vending machine for whoever’s guess is closest,” Anne answered. Time passed slowly in their cramped little office and Anne and Ka’kwet always found themselves placing nonsensical bets and playing silly games to pass the time, Charlie begrudgingly joining in after some tactful persuasion; their voices low and whispered away from the prying ears of their editor in chief, Ted Phillips.

 _The Avonlea Gazette_ was the only paper in print in Avonlea, located on the bottom floor of a reconverted residential building in the centre of the town; an old Victorian townhouse that was now the home to three floors of offices. Their space was miniscule, comprised of a hallway with an umbrella rack and a little office with high windows, stuffed with filing cabinets and three workstations; one for each member of the team. Ted Phillips office was separate, a box room in the corner with a shiny sign on the door reading ‘Mr E. Phillips, Editor in Chief.’ Anne and Ka’kwet had cackled devilishly when he had it affixed to the chipped paint, polishing the brass with a cloth and narrowing his eyes at the girls as they attempted to smother their laughter behind their hands, Charlie pale and wide-eyed, anticipating Ted to lose his cool at their teasing, sparking another verbal assault from him, all of the team feeling the spiteful wrath of it despite it being Anne who had brought it upon them. Ted liked to think of himself as _very_ important, keeping the local people informed with hard-hitting news lines and important stories however Anne and her team where fully aware that _The Avonlea Gazette_ was considered disreputable by the people in their town; it was the printed version of Mrs Lynde, the tabloid of Avonlea, spreading news on which teenaged boy had just been caught pocketing a bag of Malteser’s from the Boulter’s shop and what events where happening in the local high school; informing the people of Avonlea on issues passed by the local council and supplying the farmers of the rural community with sound advice on cow breeds and planting seasons, how to grow the largest vegetables and which type of tractor was the most cost efficient.

“You’re on,” Ka’kwet grinned, reaching across the gap between her desk and Anne’s and shaking her hand firmly.

“Charlie?” Anne asked, shooting a glance at the brown-haired figure still ducked behind his monitor.

“I’m on a deadline, Anne,” he replied, glancing at her from behind the screen. “I don’t really have the time.”

“It’s a bet, Charlie,” Anne laughed. “I’m not asking you to rob the bank.”

“Fine. Sure,” he sulked, leaning back in his seat, his legs stretching out before him, his feet in shiny, black brogues poking out from beneath his desk. “What are the terms.”

“Right, we each make a guess on when it will rain. The person closest to the time by the minute will win a Diet Coke from the vending machine on the third floor. Are we all in agreement?”

Ka’kwet and Charlie nodded, Anne eyeing the clock on the wall.

“Ok, so it is currently 2.17pm. Place your bets.”

Ka’kwet glanced out the window. She had a knack for winning these, her ability to make premonitions spookily accurate to the others. “2.45.”

“Ok,” Anne chimed brightly, noting her bet on a bright yellow post-it pad. “And Charles, if you may?”

“An hour,” he guessed. “3.30.”

“Okey dokey,” Anne grinned, listing his prediction beneath Ka’kwet’s. “And I am going to guess 3pm.” She unpeeled the post-it and stuck it to her monitor. “And now we wait.”

Charlie rolled his eyes, returning to his article, Ka’kwet abandoning her drawing, a caricature sketch of Ted with a larger moustache and prominent front teeth, rubbing her hands across her pretty round face and resuming her article. Anne sighed, sinking back in her seat, the chair swinging to and fro as she drew up her emails. She was waiting to hear back from a new opportunity that she had put herself forward for, a job at _The Charlottetown Chronicle,_ the most reputable news source on Prince Edward Island. Anne had been invited to interview three days before and, although she didn’t want to boast, she thought it went very well. The Editor in Chief, Muriel Stacy, was an enthusiastic interviewer, taking a genuine interest in Anne’s experience to date; her involvement with her school newspaper, followed by her position as Editor in Chief for her college paper while she was completing her undergraduate degree before moving into a career in journalism. She had been employed by _The Avonlea Gazette_ for three years now, and, despite finding the work tedious and her boss hateful, she gushed to Muriel about how much she enjoyed working under Ted Phillip’s direction and how much she had learned through his guidance; how she valued his constructive criticism, her teeth clenched as she spoke. Constructive criticism to Ted Phillips was having your article hurled towards the room while he ranted, his face a startling shade of puce. Muriel had seemed impressed, smiling widely as she leafed through Anne’s portfolio, Anne studying each cock of her eyebrow or flicker of a smile, trying to decipher their meaning. Anne had practically floated from the interview, her feet feeling as though they were sailing across the floorboards; her smile broad. Not even the withering stare the impolite receptionist had given her as she clattered past in her court heels could have broken her spirit and she waited anxiously ever since, her stomach bubbling with excited apprehension every time her phone jingled jauntily with an incoming call or her computer pinged with an email notification. She had a strong feeling her luck was about to change; that something great was going to happen that would alter her flight path through this life for good. Even Ka’kwet had thought so, the two musing on a quiet afternoon the week before, an open packet of Malteser’s lying between them. Ka’kwet lifted one of the chocolates and popped it into her mouth, sucking the chocolate off as she stared at Anne, her brow furrowed.

“I have a really strong feeling your luck is about to change,” she stated and Anne had beamed.

“Oh really?” she quizzed. “How?”

“I just have this strong feeling in my stomach that something great is going to happen,” she mused before leaning forward on her knees and beckoning Anne to her conspiratorially. “Take every opportunity you’re given. The universe sends us signs. Don’t ignore them, Anne.”

Anne stared at her dumbfoundedly; her blue eyes wide. She hadn’t told anyone about her interview, with the exception of Marilla and Diana, but the fact that Ka’kwet sensed she was given a sign, an _opportunity,_ must have meant that this job was for her. Anne was ready for something great to come her way; it had been too long since she had experienced the rush of serotonin that comes with blissful happiness. It had been too long since Anne had been truly _happy,_ although she would never admit it; her outward appearance always bright and grinning; a mask that disguised the inner turmoil in her chest; the feeling that she was sinking, splashing in the water as those around her sailed past, ignoring her outstretched hand and breathless gasps for help.

All too often, Anne grappled with the feeling that she peaked in high school, her life afterwards a downward spiral that led her to this stuffy little office; that led her to going through the motions; the girl who was once bursting with life now listless with no prospects on her horizon. Anne had been the cleverest in school (or at least one of the cleverest but she would never lower herself to give Gilbert Blythe the satisfaction of sharing the title), a good friend and a determined spirit. Anne was ambitious; she knew where she wanted to go and what she needed to do to get there. But Anne didn’t feel like that description suited her anymore. Truthfully, Anne was floundering. She was in a rowboat at a regatta; all her friends pushing past her with precise strokes from their oars, powering through the water while Anne paddled and paddled aimlessly, spinning in relentless circles. She had graduated top of her class and had taken the next determined step in her education; moving to Charlottetown and hiring a little flat with Diana and Ruby; Anne, once again, throwing herself into her education, spending late nights at the library and completing extra-credit assignments to help raise her overall score. She was sailing smoothly, the water calm and clear, until disaster struck; the mouth of a great whirlpool sucked her in, dragging her under. Anne had been spiralling within it ever since.

Anne had graduated three years previously, accepting a position at a smaller Charlottetown newspaper and happy to gain whatever experience they could offer her. After graduation, Anne knew the she and her friends would separate, the three clinging to each other in the dim light of their kitchen, Anne rubbing comforting circles onto Ruby’s back as she wept, her tears soaking the shoulder of Diana’s dress. It was their last night in their student accommodation, the next day they would be adults; Ruby and Moody relocating permanently to Charlottetown, buying a little two-bedroom apartment in the centre of the city that Ruby decorated with cream wallpaper splashed with pink roses; a pretty little space to relax in after a long shift nursing at the local hospital. Diana and Jerry moved home to Avonlea, renting a bungalow there; Jerry needing to be close to the Cuthberts farm and Diana happy to commute to Charlottetown for her position as a music teacher in a private school. Anne had been delighted for her friends, but she wept bitterly when they packed their belongings into boxes, the photographs taken from the walls, the fairy lights from the fire escape, leaving their well-loved apartment, their home of four years, lifeless and cold. She sought a new roommate, finding the sweet-natured Lavender Lewis, who Anne rented a box bedroom from, the weekly overheads cheap and manageable. And Anne was happy for a month or two; she worked hard and her home was comfortable. She was happy until that phone call; Marilla ringing her at an obscenely late hour, Anne grumbling as she scrambled in the dark, feeling for the source of the noise, concern furrowing her brow when she read Marilla’s name flash across the screen, her stomach dropping to her feet.

It was a long night; Anne and Marilla curled up on green padded chairs in the hospital waiting room, catching fifteen minutes of sleep when they could, gratefully accepting polystyrene cups filled with weak tea the nurses offered them. They sat in silence, the murmur of voices from the fuzzy screened TV and the squeak of orthopaedic shoes worn by the orderlies as they rushed across the waiting area distant, both lost in their own thoughts. What would they do without him? How would they cope? Anne stared at the wall; her eyes drinking in posters on Urinary Tract Infections and the importance of washing your hands to pass the time; to distract her from the troubling thoughts that swirled around her head, the thick blackness that settled in her mind, that curled it’s ominous fingers around all her hopes for the future. Would he be there when she got her first promotion, popping the cork of a bottle of champagne and smiling at her with those warm blue eyes that crinkled at the corners? Would he ever get to see her as a bride, the rough salt and pepper stubble that sprouted on his jawline grazing her skin as he pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, lowering her veil over her face and tucking her hand in the crook of his arm as ‘The Bridal March’ began? Would he be around the day she brought home her first-born, holding the child out to him, his hands trembling as he tentatively lifted the newest addition to their family from her, cradling it gently in his arms? Would her children have their grandpa? Would she have her father?

The door opened, Marilla and Anne’s head snapping upwards to see a nurse bustle through, hurrying along an elderly lady on a drip, a pink floral nightgown hanging loosely from her frail frame. Anne watched as the woman shuffled along, her skin like crepe paper, pale and wrinkled. She _looked_ sick, Anne thought. Matthew had never looked sick. She swallowed down a sob; he had so much living left to do. She didn’t have him for long enough. She wanted more time with him before he had to go. Anne clamped her hands together, her thumbs encircling each other as she squeezed her eyes shut tightly and she did something she hadn’t done in years; she prayed. She begged some great, loving body that lived in the sky to give him more time; another chance at life. What was she to do without him? _Please,_ she pleaded. _Please, if you’re there, give him more time._

And the door opened once again, a nervous young doctor appearing, Matthew’s medical chart clutched in his hand. Anne and Marilla both sprung to their feet as he swallowed back, their faces questioning; earnest.

“I’m sorry.”

Anne didn’t hear what else he had said; the world seemed to tilt on an axis, spinning slowly as those around her moved in slow-motion, a strange, strangled wail erupting from somewhere in the room. Anne glanced around her for the source of the scream before realising it was her; sinking to her knees as she tried to swallow it down, Marilla falling to the floor beside her, bundling her into her arms, her hands smoothing at her hair. She tried to free herself but she couldn’t; it felt as though the clinical white tiles had been peeled back, a great gaping hole exposed beneath them that swallowed Anne whole, and she tumbled through it, not sure which way was up and which was down or where she would land. All she could see was darkness; flashes of charcoal and grey, midnight black. She had been falling ever since, stumbling through the shadows with no direction, those around her basking in the brilliant light of the sun.

She gave up her flat, moving back home to keep Marilla company, the two wandering through the house like ghosts of their former selves; their smiles wan and their spirits broken. She had given up her job in Charlottetown too, the commute too expensive for her to commit too, instead taking a post at _The Avonlea Gazette,_ writing about a subject she didn’t know or care for. And while those around her took large leaps in their lives; Moody and Ruby becoming engaged - their lives a flurry of appointments with caterers and dress fittings and meetings with ministers - and Diana getting promoted to head of her department in her school, Jerry buying the Cuthbert’s land from them as Marilla was too frail to look after it alone, Anne found herself stuck. Like the rush of the river, her friends all propelled forward while Anne stayed still, pooled in stagnant water that never ebbed or flowed, that never brought fresh prospects or promise. She was twenty-five years old, trapped in a job she hated and perpetually single; her longest relationship a six-week fling that was broken off when he got _bored_ , Anne meeting him two weeks later in a coffee shop, where he smiled bashfully and called her ‘baby’ to disguise the fact that he had already forgotten her name. Anne had once been a relentless optimist but she wasn’t so much anymore. The world was a dull grey now; the lush green of the grass and the brilliant blue sky appeared murky to her. But she would never let anyone know; her feelings bottled up, trapped in her heart like Pandora’s chest, her the only keeper of the key that would unlock it. She wore a mask of a bright smile around her friends that she never let slip. If she was floundering, she was too proud to let them know; to cease the thrashing for a moment and stretch out an aching arm for help.

The clack-clack of keyboards filled the room around her, Anne tapping her pen on the table as refreshed her email. _The Charlottetown Chronicle_ was her Holy Grail; it was the first-class ticket that would see her embark on her next venture, no longer the pitiful, poor friend; the one in the underpaid job with an overlooked skillset. She refreshed her email again, annoyed to see there still was no flash of blue that indicated a new message. She ran her hand over her face, sighing heavily when the door to Ted Phillip’s office flung open, the man appearing in the gap, his eyes narrowed and his moustache quivering; his face a mottled shade of red.

“Shirley,” he called across the room. “A word.”

“Yes, sir,” Anne answered spinning in her chair and scrambling through the narrow gap between their desks, avoiding the curious glances from Charlie and Ka’kwet. She followed him into the room, pushing the door closed behind her, Ted pacing behind his desk, lifting a document and throwing it onto the floor in front of her.

“What is that?” he demanded. Anne eyed the document at her feet, bending to lift it from the threadbare blue carpet and turning it over in her hands.

“It’s my article, sir,” she answered, curious to why it had just been thrust onto the floor. It was a good piece; she was confident that it was.

“It’s shit, is what it is?” he growled, pounding his palms onto his desk and leaning heavily on them. “I asked for a piece on hedgerows, not…” He gestured towards the paper clamped in Anne’s hands.

“The prevalence of racism in our community?” Anne offered; she felt herself pale with quiet rage, her hands clench into fists. “With all due respect, sir, it’s a piece that _needs_ to be published. Ask Ka’kwet! Racism is still rife in our…”

“I do not _care_ , Anne,” he interrupted, his tone bored and patronising. Anne felt her blood simmer; hot rage fuel her hammering heartbeat. “This is _not_ what you are employed to write. What have you been employed to write about, Anne?”

His tone was icy, sending a chill through Anne’s blood. “But, sir,” she argued weakly.

“Anne, _what_ do I _pay_ you to write?”

“The agriculture articles.”

“Exactly. Finally, we are on the same page. Please shred _that,”_ he jabbed a bony finger towards her article, “and give me what I asked for. I expect that column on hedgerows to repopulate bee colonies on my desk by four o’ clock ready for print.”

“But, sir…”

“By four, Anne! You are dismissed.”

Anne stared at him as he sunk into his leather seat, rage simmering under the surface of her skin as she turned on her heel and stormed from his office, the door slamming loudly behind her.

“What was all that about?” Charlie asked, his face white at the thunderous look on Anne’s face. Anne’s temper was infamous; something Charlie had been witness to ever since she whacked Gilbert Blythe with a tray at thirteen years old.

“Ted Phillips is the _most_ insolent man. How can you read this and not feel outraged?” she raged, dragging her hands roughly through her hair, russet strands coming loose from her neat ponytail. She dropped into her seat, her curser clicking the refresh button once more, the screen remaining blank. “The sooner I’m out of here the better,” she muttered, drawing a blank document onto her screen and bashing the keys; ‘ _To Bee or Not To Bee; That is the Question.’_

Anne typed quickly; the hurried clack of the keys filling the room, the three people in it silent, working independently on their own pieces, all fearful of the wrath of Ted Phillips when he was in one of his black moods. She found the rhythm of her piece easily, writing about the importance on maintaining wilderness patches and hedgerows to encourage pollination and diversity when her phone vibrated on her desk. She glanced at the screen; an unknown caller. Anne’s stomach fluttered nervously, her tongue darting from her mouth and wetting her lips, suddenly dry.

“I have to take this,” she told the others, getting to her feet and pushing into the hallway, her thumb jabbing at the accept icon.

“Hello?” She cringed at the sound of her voice; a dry croak rasping from her throat.

“Hello, is that Anne?” the voice replied.

“It is,” Anne confirmed.

“Anne, this is Muriel Stacy from _The Charlottetown Chronicle.”_ Anne felt her breath catch in her throat; this was it. The moment she was waiting for. Her heart felt light with elation; ablaze with possibility. What would the pay be like? A damn sight better than here, she reckoned, so she could commute to Charlottetown and still be able to stay at home with Marilla. And she would be allowed to talk about topical issues; politics and oppression; things people _cared_ about. Not hedgerows. Not breeds of cows or the right way to shear a sheep. Anne felt breathless with exhilaration, poised to accept the position.

“I hope you don’t mind my calling.”

“Not at all,” Anne replied brightly. Muriel was exactly the type of person Anne wished to work for. She was so supportive and inspiring; Anne had felt her a true kindred spirit the moment she laid her eyes on her and was desperate to impress her; to make her proud.

“I wished to provide you with some feedback,” Muriel explained. “I’m ringing with bad news I’m afraid. Unfortunately, we have gone in a different direction for the position on our team.”

Anne fell against the wall, her chest pained and winded like she had just been kicked. A different direction? No, it wasn’t possible; her interview had gone _well._ It was her dream position; her luck was meant to have _changed_. This job was her _fantasy_ ; her next big adventure. She bit at her lip in a poor attempt to compose herself, gulping back the uncomfortable lump that lodged itself in her throat, the hot prickle at her eyes. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry, Anne. I wish you to know you are a very talented writer; your use of language is impeccable and that is a commendable quality. But I felt you lacked an individual style. You haven’t yet developed _your_ voice.”

“My voice?” Anne parroted dumbly. She didn’t understand. She wrote objectively, like all good journalists should. Wasn’t that what Muriel wanted?

“A distinctive element to your writing that is _you._ Where is the _passion?_ What makes you tick? Who _is_ Anne Shirley-Cuthbert?”

Anne bit her lip, her eyes fixed on her feet, scuffed tan oxfords and lavender frilled socks. The questions echoed in her head; she was passionate, wasn’t she? Or had that died with Matthew? The fiery zest for life and nature and justice that had once been hers.

“I don’t know,” she replied, her voice small and breathy, her skin flushing red, a bright bloom stemming from her collarbones and sweeping up her neck, tinging her cheeks. The question was rhetorical, she realised. She wasn’t meant to have answered it. 

“Well, I suggest you find out,” Muriel responded, her voice warm and kind. “And please do keep writing.”

Anne hung up, ending the call with the promise to develop her writing and send more articles for Muriel to read over; the decision could be reversed, she assured Anne, when she discovers her own style of writing.

“I want to know who Anne is, not who Anne wants me to believe she is.”

Anne sank down the wall, burying her face in her hands as she curled her knees to her chest, Muriel’s words echoing around her mind. Anne _knew_ who she was; she was lost – stuck, everyone sprinting ahead in the cross-country race of life while she limped behind; injured a few minutes into the race and weakly soldiering. When was it her turn? When was her moment of glory? She had been so _sure_ this was her time; that the sun would finally shine upon her, her skin warm beneath its glow.

Her phone jingled at her side, a notification illuminating the screen from Diana. Anne lifted it, opening the message to see an image of Jerry and Diana, faces both glowing with happiness smiling out at her, Diana’s left hand held aloft between them, a large princess cut diamond adorning her finger, the words ‘ _soon to be Mrs Baynard’_ displayed underneath.

Anne stared at the image; at Diana’s brilliant smile, at the soft look on Jerry’s face, his head turned towards the camera but his eyes on Diana, the sparkling silver band and the promise it held. She inhaled sharp, shallow breath, swallowing the bittersweet feeling of joy and jealousy; her heart bursting with love for two of her dearest friends whilst her blood curdled with noxious envy; of how she had fallen behind again, her friends vaulting another hurdle she would never cross.

_Congratulations!! What a ring! Wishing you all the love and luck in the world! I love you both so much xx_

Anne stared at her message before pressing send, glancing at Diana and Jerry’s elated faces once more. It wasn’t today for her, she thought as she clambered from the tiled floor, dusting the lint off her legs, but it will be someday. Her luck would change soon. And, as if Mother Nature was playing a cruel joke, trying her hand at pathetic fallacy, the sky rumbled with a clatter of thunder, a bright flash of lightening illuminating the sky as the heavy grey clouds split, rain tumbling down and bouncing against the pavement. Anne laughed mirthlessly, checking the time. 2.47. She couldn’t even win a lousy bet, she thought, traipsing to the upstairs vending machine, her feet heavy with each step, and jamming coins into the machine’s greedy mouth, the can clattering to the tray.

Anne plodded back down the stairs, hesitating at the door to their office to fix a forced smile on her face, inhaling a deep breath and pushing into the stuffy room.

“And we have a winner!” she declared, ceremoniously placing the Coke before Ka’kwet. “Two minutes off. You’re too good at this.”

She dropped into her seat again as Ka’kwet grinned, pulling the tab, the can opening with a hissing fizz.

“Cheers,” she laughed, raising it into a toast before sipping from it. Anne forced a laugh, pulling the post-it with predictions for her bet off her screen and pressing the enter key, the screen flashing back to life. She clicked back into her word document, rereading her article when her phone buzzed once more; a message from Ruby.

_Have you heard another wedding is on the horizon?? Hooray! I guess it’s time to open up that old time capsule, right? xx_

Anne stared at the message, a smile softening her face. Anne had forgotten all about the time capsule; trust Ruby to have remembered it. Her soul was like a peony rose; sweet and romantic. She had probably waited for someone to suggest digging it up after her and Moody had gotten engaged a year previously, Anne realised with a pang of guilt. That was their deal, right? It would be dug up again when the first of them was to get married. Well, no time like the present; Diana and Jerry were newly engaged and Ruby and Moody were due to be married at the end of August. Why shouldn’t it be now?

Anne typed a reply:

_Great idea, Ruby! I forgot all about it! You know I’ll be there, name a time and place xx_

She hit send when her phone jingled once more, a reply to Ruby’s message. Anne’s brow furrowed. That was curious; was this not a private message? She jabbed at the recipients list with a trembling finger, a long list of names extending before her, Anne’s eyes scanning down them – Diana, Tillie, Jane, Josie - and her body going rigid when she noticed a name included. No, not him. It had been _years_ since she had seen him. She returned to the message; her mouth suddenly dry as she read it.

_Sure, sounds good. I’ve just landed so whenever suits me_

“Fuck!”

Ka’kwet’s head popped up from behind her monitor, Charlie’s face contorting at Anne’s wild eyes and loud exclamation.

“Anne, are you alright?” Ka’kwet asked, her voice laced with concern.

Anne nodded, a wide smile plastered on her face that she imagined made her look manic, her cheeks taut as the skin stretched.

“Okay.” Ka’kwet eyed her warily but didn’t prod further, her gaze returning to her screen. Anne’s eyes dropped to the message again, her heart hammering rapidly in her chest.

Gilbert Blythe was back in Avonlea. Well, this day had just gone from bad to worse.

**********

Gilbert Blythe shouldered his way into his childhood bedroom, his suitcase rumbling over the floorboards as he dragged it behind him. It had been a long day and, despite it still being bright outside, he was heavy with weariness and ready to collapse into his bed for a few hours sleep.

Travelling had always exhausted Gilbert, despite his flight being short, just a little over two hours spent in the air. He had spent it sandwiched between a sweating man who snored loudly as he dozed and another who wore a tailored suit and spent the whole flight grumbling to the stewardess about the wait for his drinks, his complexion reddening deeper and deeper with each can of pre-mixed Jack Daniels and coke he knocked back with remarkable speed. Gilbert squeezed between them, sinking into the cloth seat, his shoulders tense and his legs cramped in the footwell, when a short, sharp kick thumped against the back of his seat, sniggering laughter coming from behind. He had sighed; this wouldn’t be the relaxing flight he had hoped it would be. The type of flight where he could pull on his headphones and press play on Hozier’s debut album, losing himself in the soft folk music as he opened his well-thumbed copy of _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban,_ immersing himself in his childhood fantasy of magic and marauders, found family and fierce friendships; a book that transported him back to a time in his life when he was unrelentingly _happy._ That wasn’t to say that he wasn’t happy anymore, of course. He was happy; he had nothing to be unhappy about. He had a beautiful, clever girlfriend with supportive parents. He had a wonderful family backing his every move from Avonlea. He lived in an amazing apartment, with beams in the rafters and bay windows that overlooked the city and a man who held the door open for him whenever he entered or exited the building, and he had just recently graduated as a doctor; his absolute dream job. But sometimes, when he stopped for a moment to catch his breath, when he was still and allowed himself to listen to his own thoughts or to focus on the uneasy feeling that settled in deep his stomach, he realised he may not be as _happy_ as he believed himself to be; that sometimes the bright lights that flashed from the heavy black cameras of Toronto’s tabloid photographers that swarmed around his girlfriend when they were out together blinded him. That sometimes his huge apartment was a little lonely; Winnie staying out until the early hours of the morning at another press event for a brand she was ambassador to. He felt sometimes like his life wasn’t his own. Nigel and Madeleine Rose both took a great interest in Gilbert’s education, putting him in contact with doctors with impressive credentials who slipped him business cards with a wink, telling him to call them if he needed any help in choosing his path. Gilbert knew his path; he knew what type of medicine he wanted to go into. He had never decided to become a doctor for the money or for the impressive letters that now followed his name. He only wanted to help people; he wanted to meet a scared fourteen-year-old boy who had just had a parent receive a cancer diagnosis, much like him, and assure him that he would do the best he could to make his dad better. And he would work to fulfil that oath every single day. But, recently, he felt himself be swayed from that dream; that vivid vision he had of himself supporting a family through the uncertainty of treatment for that terrifying illness, tears in his eyes when he showed them their medical notes and told them the tumour was gone, his heart incandescent as the family clutched at each other, joyous and hopeful and peaceful at last.

“Surgery, Gilbert,” Nigel Rose had told him when they sat together in his study, the light low and the room smoky, a tumbler of scotch whiskey swirling in his hand. “That’s where you should go. That’s where the money is.”

Gilbert had never done anything for the money before, sitting like a shiny trophy on a podium waiting to be given to the person who was greediest for it; he had never come across a fork in the road, surveying both paths, one drowned in sunshine, neat flower beds lining the golden cobbles, the other dark, overgrown rose bushes spilling across the uneven slabs, their thorns prickling his skin, and chose the easier of the two. He enjoyed a challenge; pushing himself as hard as he could, working every hour that was possible, his pace unrelenting, but secure in the knowledge that his merits were accredited to him and him alone. He had sacrificed a lot in his seven years in Toronto; his trips back to Avonlea were infrequent and short, a weekend at Christmas, a fortnight during the summer. He had lost friends for it, he hadn’t seen his family in almost a year, but Winnie was like family to him now; her and the Roses. And he would do what he could to please them, even if that meant stumbling down a path that would take further from what he wanted; that would lead him to a high brick wall that boxed him in instead of the precipice of a cliff, water swirling below him and wind whipping through his hair, where he could enjoy the view.

“I suppose, now that you’ve graduated, you have another matter pressing on your mind,” Mr Rose had suggested, his eyebrows raised, a conspiratorial smile on his face. “Perhaps we’ll be hearing of an engagement soon.”

The words echoed around the room, bouncing of the walls and reverberating back on Gilbert. And engagement? Already? He and Winnie had been together for two years; they lived together, sharing the great lofty apartment that she was barely in. And they had _spoken_ about the future before so the thought of marriage shouldn’t have been so alarming. It shouldn’t have caused the air to evaporate from his lungs, his chest tight as he gasped shallowly for a breath of oxygen. It shouldn’t have made his palms sweaty, moisture to bead on his forehead; but it did. Gilbert _loved_ Winnie; he was sure he did. But he was only twenty-five; he only just donned his graduate cap and said goodbye to school, a page turning in the book of his life, a new chapter beginning. Was he _ready_ to be married? He wasn’t sure. Was he _ready_ to submit to her lifestyle of fancy cars and expensive champagne; Chanel tote bags and endless charity galas? He couldn’t answer that either.

Being with Winifred was fun; she was good humoured and easy to be with. She was calming and kindly and successful, driven and dedicated to her career as a socialite and influencer; but sometimes the camera flashing became too much. Sometimes he wanted to shrink into the background; to slip on his old red converse and faded grey jeans and feel like _himself_ again, instead of the grinning face the tabloids published, kitted out in expensive pea coats and dark blue jeans, his shirt designer, his hair pushed back from his face, styled the way Winnie liked it. He looked at that man; the face and eyes and smile all so familiar, but he didn’t know him. He was a stranger who inhabited Gilbert’s body; who controlled how he acted in front of the Rose’s impressive friends; his laugh too loud, his voice too eager.

But despite his reservations; all his doubts and worries, he found himself considering the future Nigel Rose had prepared for him; considering courses that Nigel suggested to him, elbowing into his side and winking stealthily, his voice dropped to a whisper as he told Gilbert about his good friend who sat on the admissions board and “ _happened_ to owe him a favour,” Gilbert’s throat going dry, his brow furrowing as he accepted a tumbler of something too strong for his palate; another reminder that he didn’t belong here. His drink of choice was normally a pint of crisp cider, not a crystal glass of imported whiskey. He found his browser history full of images of twinkling diamond rings: princess cut, pear shaped, marquise, the prices climbing higher and higher, the thought of buying one making his chest constrict; his throat to become tight. Gilbert already owned a ring; a delicate gold band with a solitary emerald nestled in it, and he thought it the most beautiful ring he had ever seen, the emerald glinting in the light like the fields of Avonlea on a bright summer’s day. It had belonged to his mother, bequeathed to him by his father when he passed with a single instruction; “For the one who sets your heart aflame.”

For Gilbert, loving Winnie wasn’t a fire; it wasn’t passionate and wild, it was quiet. It was like sailing a boat on a warm day, the water calm beneath the bow, a cool breeze on your face. It was comfortable, a sense of going through the motions; companionable. He wasn’t sure he was capable of the type of love his father wished for him. He was a scientist, after all; purely analytical, unflappable, cool under stress. He could never envision himself burning with love for someone; a gentle flicker of interest in his chest catching, engulfing his body in searing flames.

He felt around for the emerald ring now, safely stowed in a pair of rolled socks tucked deep in his case. He wasn’t sure _why_ he had packed it, exactly. Maybe it had been because of who it belonged to; he wanted something of hers in the old house that she had once filled with such joy. Or maybe it was because he wanted to show it to Bash and Mary while he was home; to ask them candidly what they thought of Winnie and if they felt the timing was right. Or maybe it was the conversation he had with Winnie before he left, Gilbert curled on their sofa, a book propped open on his knee, anxiously glancing at the clock as it ticked later and later, his fingers twitching nervously, wondering if he should text her and check in, when he heard her keys rattle at the door, the lock clicking open, her heels click-clacking up their hallway.

“Hello, you,” she cooed, embracing his from behind, her slender arms slipping around his shoulders.

“Hello.”

“I was talking to Daddy today,” she purred, rounding the sofa and sinking down beside him, tangling her hand in his. “He said _you_ were talking about rings.”

Her voice was breathy with excitement and Gilbert didn’t have the heart to tell her an engagement might not be imminent; that her father was the one who led the conversation, Gilbert frozen to his seat as Nigel dictated his future to him. He didn’t know how to tell her he wasn’t sure how ready he was. Instead he drew her to him, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“It might have come up,” he croaked, his voice low, his throat feeling dry and tight. “Would that be something you want?”

“Uhm, yes,” she laughed. “I mean we’ve talked about it, right?”

Gilbert’s lips parted, his brows rounding at her answer. She was right; they had talked about it. What was he waiting for? It was what Winnifred wanted and he _loved_ Winnie; he would do what he could to make her happy. And so the ring found its way into his suitcase, hidden amongst his things and away from her prying eyes and fumbling hands that he suspected may begin rooting amongst his drawers at home; fumbling through his socks and boxers, feeling between the jeans folded in their wardrobe, to find a little black box with a sparkling ring nestled inside.

He collapsed into his bed, flicking the box open with one hand and surveying the ring inside, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. This ring wasn’t very _Winnie;_ it wasn’t an expensive Tiffany’s diamond with a shiny silver band, but he _hoped_ she would love it. He closed his eyes, forcing his mind to conjure an image of him slipping the emerald onto her slender finger but he couldn’t imagine it; all he could see was a disembodied hand floating in mid-air, the skin pale and creamy.

A knock on the door drew him out of his head and back into his bedroom, the glow of the lamp casting shadows across the walls.

“Come in,” he called, snapping the box shut, the emerald hidden beneath the velvet lid.

Mary pushed the door open, bustling into his room with a tray loaded with a copy of the newspaper and a steaming mug of tea, thick slices of toast, the butter melting sumptuously, dripping onto the plate.

“I figured you might be hungry,” she reasoned, shrugging before slipping the tray on the bed beside him, sitting beside it.

“Thanks.” He grinned, lifting the newspaper and cocking an eyebrow at her questioningly.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been home,” she chuckled. “I thought might need to get up speed with all the local gossip.”

Gilbert flushed guiltily. It had been too long since he had been home, his last visit the previous September for a week. This year had been long and trying; endless hours of assignments and work placements, the pressure so insistent he feared he would combust, so when Moody and Ruby had phoned him a few months previously, asking him to be their best man and to return to Avonlea for the summer he had jumped at the chance. His life in Toronto was a rat race; school, placement, part-time jobs, long nights at the library, stolen moments with his girlfriend at parties he didn’t want to be at, wearing clothes he didn’t like, his head aching with the stress he felt and the thump of the music that blasted from speakers above them. Being with Winnie was like that; she was dedicated to her job; he was dedicated to his. She was an upcoming celebrity in Toronto; her Instagram feed filled with promoted products and brand deals, her blog crammed with her opinions on the best lipsticks and summer dresses; cocktail recipes she enjoyed and fashion accounts she had found inspiring. He didn’t always understand her work, his humble upbringing leaving him far removed from her glossy lifestyle, but her and her friends accepted him and he tried his hardest to say and do the right thing. The only problem being was that being conscious of what he said and did all the time all the time was draining; it left him listless. He was ready for the wildness of Avonlea; the shore and the beach; the forest that stretched between their land and the border to the Cuthbert farm. He was ready for the comfort of his family, his heart full at the faces of his niece and nephew running towards him when he arrived, a banner tacked to the wall reading _‘Welcome Home, Uncle Gilby’._

He had dropped to his knees, sweeping Dellie and little Elijah into a warm tight hug, drawing them close to his chest as he breathed in the talcum powder freshness of them before attacking them with kisses, the two children fighting him off, cackling with glee as he chased them around the kitchen. When he was in Toronto it was his family he missed the most. He video called them as often as he could but he couldn’t hug through _Skype;_ he couldn’t see how big Dellie had grown, five years old now, her hair a wild head of bouncing dark curls, or feel the weight of Elijah’s head as he fell asleep on his shoulder, his thumb lodged in his mouth.

Despite his heart being riddled with guilt at having missed all these special little moments; first steps and dance rehearsals, Bash and Mary always welcomed him home with open arms, including him in family life like he had never been away. He had been worried when he had arrived however; Mary didn’t look well, Gilbert thought. Her skin was pale and her eyes were heavy and she seemed slower, tired. Gilbert noticed Bash looked drawn too, the circles under his eyes darker than he had remembered, although his face still wore his bright toothy grin, drawing Gilbert into a warm hug and clapping him on the shoulder when they broke apart.

“It’s good to see you, brother,” he had said and Gilbert swallowed back a lump that had swelled in his throat, blinking away tears that gathered on his lash line.

“It’s good to see you, too. I’m sorry it took so long to come home.”

“Maybe more of your friends should get married so we can see you more often,” Bash had joked. “Who’s next?”

Gilbert remembered the message he had received earlier that day, the group chat filled with messages of congratulations for Diana and Jerry; Ruby suggesting it was time to dig up the time capsule they had planted the day school had ended.

“Diana Barry’s just gotten engaged,” he offered with a grin. “So, you may be seeing me again sooner than you expected.”

Mary swatted at Bash’s arm. “Hey, we’ve just got him home. Let’s not wish away the summer,” she scolded, Bash and Gilbert chuckling at her indignant expression. He loved the comfortable banter they shared at home; there was no need for serious conversations or forced smiles. It was easy; familiar.

Gilbert leafed through the paper Mary had given him, scanning over the headlines as he sipped at his tea.

“Not too much ever changes around here, huh?” he chuckled, familiar names printed across the pages. The Boulter’s shop was still being vandalised by bored teenagers chasing a thrill, the Andrews’ business was flourishing, they had just opened a new head office in Charlottetown, appointing a new CEO. He chuckled at a story about the local high school spelling bee, reminiscing with a smile of his own days competing, standing sheepishly behind the microphone in the school hall, his knees knocking together nervously and his face splitting into a triumphant grin when Mr Lynde announced his spelling had been correct to a thunderous round of applause; that odd tingling feeling shooting down his spine and two hot spots of colour blooming high on his cheekbones when he noticed Anne Shirley-Cuthbert’s eyes boring into him, her head held loftily as he reclaimed his seat. He would meet her gaze with a smile, soft and sincere, that he hoped she would take as a peace offering. She never did. He shook his head, laughing softly at the memory. It had been years since he had seen Anne; he wondered what she did now, if she was as plucky as ever.

He turned the page again, chuckling at the writing printed across the head of the page; ‘ _To Bee or Not To Bee; That is the Question’_ by Cordelia Walters. Gilbert frowned; he hadn’t been home for some time but he was certain there were no Walters that lived in Avonlea.

“Who is Cordelia Walters?” he puzzled, his eyes meeting Mary’s.

“She writes the agriculture articles.” Mary glanced at the story he was reading. “We only buy the _Gazette_ because of her. Your brother fancies her.”

Gilbert chuckled softly at Mary’s expressive face; the mischievous twinkle in her eye and her soft giggle as Bash popped his head around the open door jamb.

“What are you two giggling about in here?” he asked, crossing the threshold and entering Gilbert’s room.

“Mary was just telling me about your _crush,”_ Gilbert teased, folding the paper and waving the article at him.

“Oh, was she now.” Bash crept closer, grabbing Mary by the waist and tickling at her sides. “Are you jealous, my love?” he teased, halting the tickle attack abruptly as Mary winced, her hand automatically clutching at her side.

“Mary, are you alright?” Gilbert queried, his voice low and urgent, his grin slipping from his face, replaced with a furrow of concern. “Are you hurt?”

Mary swatted her hand through the air, her beaming smile returning to her face. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

Gilbert nodded, though he wasn’t convinced.

“Look, we’ve got our kiddies down to sleep and we should probably let you get some sleep too.” She climbed to her feet and dropped a kiss to the crown of Gilbert’s head. “We are both delighted to have you home.”

“Night, guys,” Gilbert called as the couple left the room, pulling the door closed behind them.

“He looks skinny,” he could hear Mary worry as they ambled up the hall.

“He’s always been skinny,” Bash replied, his voice lilting as he joked, diminishing as they moved further down the hall.

Gilbert huffed out a laugh, glancing back down at the paper in his hands and reflecting on what he said earlier; not too much changed around here. The gossip printed in the paper was the same. Even his childhood bedroom looked the same; dark blue walls and stained wooden floorboards, bookshelves nailed above his desk, bookends keeping volumes of medical textbooks upright. His chest of drawers still stood at the foot of the bed, a wardrobe with a wonky door filling the space beside it and the wall. He still had yellowing Nasa posters stuck to his bedroom wall, the edges beginning to curl with age. He smiled, nibbling at his toast and drinking in the nostalgia being in the old room brought him; memories of ghost stories with the boys, their narrow shoulders quaking as Gilbert weaved a spine chilling tale of a banshee in Ireland who presided over old castle ruins, bringing death to those who dared to trespass. Of slammed doors after another lengthy school day spent arguing with Anne, collapsing onto his bed, his hands threaded into his hair as he stared at his ceiling and wondered what that odd little tremor that fluttered low in his stomach when she eyed him meant; if it was seething hatred or something else. Of long nights with too much coffee, hunched over his desk studying for his upcoming exams, his eyes stinging in the lamp light. Bedtime stories from his dad, little Gilbert tucked up beneath _Toy Story_ bed sheets or crying himself to sleep, curled in a ball beneath his quilt, his eyes red rimmed and nose runny, desperately praying that God would just take him too, because how could he go on without his father? Gilbert shook his head, dispelling the melancholy thoughts that had crept in. That was why he rarely came home, he remembered. It was too difficult; the memories were too painful for him. It was funny, even after all this time the grief never became easier; it was always there, a dark shadow that followed his every move, loomed in every corner, as painful as ever. The only difference being that Gilbert had gotten used to it. He was used to thinking of his dad in the quiet stillness of the morning, his hands wrapped around a mug of steaming coffee; wondering if he was watching him and hoping he was proud.

He climbed off his bed, kicking off his shoes and peeling off his jeans, changing into a soft, blue t-shirt before slipping under is bedsheets. He glanced at his phone; their group chat had been busy he noticed; unopened message notifications littering his screen.

He tapped into them; reading through the salutations sent to Diana and Jerry and the suggestions of when they should open the time capsule. It had been agreed without his input, he noticed; Ruby detailing meeting in the park on Saturday for a celebratory picnic.

He sighed, scrolling through the messages and pausing on one.

_Great idea, Ruby. I’ll see you all there_ _😊 xx_

Gilbert locked his phone and placed it on his bedside cabinet, drawing a hand wearily across his eyes. It had been seven years since he had last spoken to Anne; if they ever crossed paths at parties while he was home, they usually ignored each other. He knew that this summer was going to be spent helping Moody and Ruby with final preparations for the wedding; he just hoped that the time they would be spending together wouldn’t open old wounds.

He hoped they could put their old rivalry behind them; that they could both swallow their pride and shake hands for the sake of their mutual friends. He hoped they could lower their weapons; hands raised above their heads as they met in the middle and came to a resolution.

He yawned, his eyes growing heavy, a flicker of a smile curving his lips as he thought of how nice it would be to be friends with Anne Shirley-Cuthbert at last before it all faded to black. 

**********

Saturday afternoon was hot; a fresh summer breeze whipping through Anne’s hair, the waved tendrils of flame red locks that framed Anne’s face twisting and twirling in it, the heads of the lilac trees bobbing and lush leaves rustling overhead. It was the type of day that Anne loved; when everything was hot and hazy. A day for swimming in the sea and watching the sun set lounging on the sand, her shoulders wrapped in a cosy cardigan, or riding her bicycle along the coastal path, a tartan blanket and a copy of _Little Women_ tucked into the wicker basket attached to her handlebars, and when she reached the long reeds at the end of the path, she would lay the blanket flat and read there until sundown, the water crashing against the rocks soothing her, the bees ambling lazily around the dandelion heads in the long grass.

But instead she found herself at the local park, leaning against Diana’s car, her arms crossed guardedly over her chest as her friends chattered excitedly beside her, Diana unloading picnic blankets and a wicker basket from the boot.

“It’s nice having the gang back together, isn’t it?” Diana mused, passing the bundle of blankets to Ruby.

“I still don’t know why _he_ had to come?” Anne seethed as she pushed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose with a slender finger, her eyes narrowing at him as he threw his head back, a gurgle of laughter pealing from his throat, his hands shoved in his pockets.

“Oh, Anne, behave,” Diana scolded. “He’s as much part of the group as the rest of us.”

“Debatable,” Anne grumbled.

“Why, if it’s possible, I think he may have gotten _more_ handsome since we seen him last,” Ruby giggled, a petal pink blush blooming across her cheeks.

“Ruby!” Anne exclaimed, her eyes wide as she turned to her friend, a sharp burst of laughter exploding from her throat. “You’re almost a married woman!”

“And what of it,” Ruby quipped cheekily. “It’s like being on a diet, right? You can look at the menu but you don’t have to eat anything.”

Diana and Anne cackled as Ruby shot a coquettish glance over her shoulder, wiggling her eyebrows at them suggestively as she ambled towards the boys, drawing Gilbert into a tiptoed hug before slipping her arm around Moody’s waist, Moody smiling down at her adoringly. Anne watched as they chattered amicably, a roguish smile light Gilbert’s features, the skin on his jaw taught as he drew himself to full height, the toned muscles of his arms visible in his t-shirt as he crossed his arms over his chest. He was handsome, Anne supposed, if you were into that dark curly-haired, hazel eyed thing…which she certainly was _not._

“Do you like what you see?” Diana teased, eyeing Anne suspiciously. Anne flummoxed, snapping her eyes from Gilbert and towards Diana, her eyebrow cocked suspiciously, a knowing smile on her face.

“Please!” Anne scoffed. “Give me a little credit, Diana.”

“He _is_ handsome, though,” Diana prompted. “Is he not?”

“He has a girlfriend,” Anne argued hotly. Anne didn’t take much interest in Gilbert Blythe’s life but she could hardly have ignored the photographs of a pretty blonde wrapped in an expensive leather jacket, her hand splayed proprietarily on Gilbert’s chest, that Ruby thrust towards her, enthusing about how stylish Winifred was or what a beautiful couple they made.

Diana’s face split into a grin as she hoisted the picnic basket from the boot of her car. “Yes,” she agreed. “He does. But as far as I remember there’s no ring on any fingers yet.”

“Diana!” Anne cried, Diana sniggering impishly as Anne bristled indignantly at the suggestion that she was attracted to Gilbert Blythe. “I think I’d take my chances with Jack the Ripper quicker.”

“Well, that’s a pity,” Diana pouted mockingly. “I always thought you two would have been sweet.”

“I respectfully disagree. I have never met anyone as pompous or irritating or absolutely…”

“Hush now, Anne,” Diana hissed hurriedly. “He’s coming over here.”

Anne felt a rush of panic charge through her, her fists clenching tightly as she spun on her heel to see Gilbert Blythe standing behind her, a teasing smile twisting his lips that set Anne’s teeth on edge; her shoulders tensing defensively as his eyes lingered on her, roaming over her hair and face.

“Diana,” he greeted, his eyes flickering to Diana before snapping back to Anne, his face splitting into a grin. “Anne. God, you haven’t changed at all.”

Anne scowled. What was that supposed to mean? She glanced down at herself and blushed as she noted she was in the same cut off dungarees embroidered in large white daisies she wore in school, her hair fastened in two thick Dutch braids. She felt hot with embarrassment; he was mocking her. She thrust her nose into the air, squaring her shoulders as she eyed him, her glance slow and purposeful, taking in his thatch of chocolate curls, his warm hazel eyes, the grey t-shirt that stretched across his chest, his expensive jeans, cuffed at the hem and the same pair of scuffed red converse he wore in school on his feet.

“Well, well, well,” Anne muttered, her voice glacial. “Look who just landed back in Oz.” She allowed her eyes to fall to his feet again. “What happened, Dorothy? Get lost on the yellow brick road?”

Gilbert’s eyebrows knitted together, his face furrowing with confusion, following her gaze to his red converse before meeting her eyes again, his arms crossing defensively over his chest.

“It appears I found the wicked witch easily enough,” he shot back, his tone jesting. “Tell me, do you still melt under water?”

Anne felt herself simmer with white rage. He had _never_ apologised for what he had done to her all those years ago; if he thought he could swagger back into her life after all these years and pretend they were _friends_ he would have to ready himself for a rude awakening.

“It looks like you haven’t changed much either,” Anne smiled sarcastically. “Seems you are as much of an asshole as ever.”

Gilbert’s eyebrows shot upwards, his mouth falling open with shock. “What?” he sputtered. “Anne, I was trying to be civil. _You_ were the one who came in too hot.”

“ _I_ came in too hot,” Anne began to argue but Diana cut across her, placing a hand firmly on Anne’s arm to quieten any argument she was going to fling Gilbert’s way.

“Hey, mom and dad, can we not fight in front of the kids?” she whispered, glancing between the two before shooting a knowing look towards the rest of the group who were watching them curiously, eyes wide and mouths agape as Anne squared off against Gilbert.

“Sure,” Gilbert replied, lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender, dropping them to his sides. He dragged his eyes from Anne and back towards Diana, gesturing towards the cool box that still sat in the trunk of her car.

“Can I help you with that?” he asked, his hand brushing at the nape of his neck as his eyes flickered towards Anne once more.

“I can take it,” Anne replied tightly, moving to the back of the car and gasping as she hoisted the heavy box from the boot. Gilbert stepped forward, reaching around the box to steady it, Anne’s grip on one side loosening.

“Here, let me help you with that.”

Anne rolled her eyes, snapping her head towards Diana who watched the pair jostle with the bulky cooler, a curious expression on her pretty face. “Diana, could you _please_ tell Gilbert Blythe I don’t need his help?”

Diana sighed wearily as Gilbert’s eyes narrowed at Anne over the top of the cooler.

“Why don’t you tell me yourself? I’m right here.”

“I suppose I just did.”

Gilbert let his hands drop from the box, allowing Anne to amble ahead of him with the cooler, each step heavy under it’s weight as she plodded across the path. He wasn’t sure what he had done to trigger an argument already. It had been so long since they had seen each other; hadn’t she moved on? He certainly had; any ill feelings he had towards her laid to rest long ago. It wasn’t worth harbouring a grudge over some ancient slight, was it? He smiled softly as he watched her struggle; she looked exactly the same as she had in school. Her autumn hued hair still fashioned in two braids that spilled over her shoulders, the same daisy print denim that exposed her long, slender legs, speckled in freckles; the same proud look on her face, her nose turned skyward, her full, wide mouth set in a tight line. She stumbled slightly, the box slipping from her grasp and landing on the grass, the lid dislodging itself. Gilbert jogged over to her, Anne grumbling as she snapped the lid back in place and braced herself to lift the box once more.

“C’mon Anne, let me help you,” he urged. She straightened, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared him down. He felt himself shrink under her withering gaze.

“What part of “I don’t need your help” do you struggle to comprehend, Mr Blythe?” she asked coolly.

“Will you ever stop being so stubborn?” he teased, gesturing towards the cool box at their feet. Anne’s eyes flickered towards it and he could see her shoulders fall resignedly.

“Fine.”

He grinned, taking one handle in his hand as she took the other in hers. “On three,” she ordered. “One, two, three.”

They lifted the box easily from the grass and ambled towards the others who had laid blankets under the tree that shaded the patch of land their time capsule had been hidden under, Tillie already lounging on her back, shading the sun from her eyes, Josie and Jane beside her, Josie posing for a polaroid picture.

Gilbert glanced at Anne from the corner of his eye. Maybe he should try again, for the sake of the others. It would be a tiresome summer for the group if he and Anne were at each other’s throats for the duration of his stay.

He cleared his throat. “So how have you been, Anne?”

“Fantastic,” she answered, her voice clipped.

“Sure,” he nodded pensively. “What have you been up to?”

“Working.”

He sighed. He just needed to be persistent; she could learn to _tolerate_ him surely. “And what is it you do again?”

“I write,” she retorted. He could hear the annoyance in her voice but a two-word answer was an improvement on the previous responses he was given. She smiled shortly.

“You’re a journalist, right?” he clarified. “Which paper is it you work for?”

Anne glanced at him from beneath her lashes. What was this; the Spanish Inquisition? Why was he suddenly so desperate to know more about her life? And what could she say? She could hardly tell him the truth; that she worked for a cheap local paper that had never published a credible story in the history of its existence. He was a newly graduated doctor, for crying out loud! He had a glamourous life in Toronto and an impressive M.D. that followed his name.

“I write for _The Charlottetown Chronicle,”_ she blurted hastily.

“Really? That’s amazing.” His voice was genuine and when she glanced towards him she noticed he was smiling at her, a grin that exposed a row of perfect teeth. Anne flushed guiltily under his gaze, lowering the box to the picnic blanket and dragging her eyes from him, lowering herself beside Ruby.

Gilbert settled on a blanket beside Tillie and Jane, listening with wide eyed rapture at their tales of work and travel. It had been some time since their school gang had reunited; Josie remained in Charlottetown, completing a PhD in psychology, her days filled with clinical trials for new forms of therapy and studying, her line of work interesting and diverse. Jane followed in her siblings’ footsteps, completing a business degree and rapidly climbing the corporate ladder in her father’s business; her quick wit and sharp instinctiveness meaning she rose quickly through the ranks, and Tillie found herself back home after spending a few years backpacking around Europe and Asia with Paul L; the two of them hiring an old Volkswagen campervan and experiencing what the world had to offer them before it was too late and they found themselves with a mortgage and a handful of children to support. Gilbert grinned as he listened to their wild tales of boardroom take downs and clinical trials; of swimming in Lake Bled at midnight, the moon a great orb reflected on the surface. It sounded like an adventure he never had the opportunity to pursue for himself. He supposed he wouldn’t get the opportunity to now; responsibility rolling towards him like a run-away train.

“What about you, Anne?” Tillie asked. “How has everything been in the world of journalism?”

Gilbert’s eyes snapped towards Anne. He noticed her shift slightly, her head duck before her eyes connected directly with his. He flushed, hurriedly dropping his gaze towards the blanket he was sitting cross-legged on. Why did she look at him? He shook his head slightly, inhaling deeply to quell the long dormant tickle that her gaze had awakened in him; the flutter in his stomach he hadn’t experienced since he was eighteen. It was being in her presence again, he reasoned; his body reexperiencing the silly tremor of excitement he used to get from her unpredictability, back when the classroom had been their battlefield, but he couldn’t allow himself to get sucked into that again. They had both grown up; he wasn’t that kid anymore.

“Oh, you know,” she mumbled, the palm of her hand brushing over the perfect little daisy heads that dotted the grass. “Nothing much changes there.” She laughed mirthlessly; a hollow “ha” bursting from her lungs. The others watched her expectantly, waiting for an elaboration that never came.

Diana cleared her throat, climbing to her feet and shifting their friends focus from Anne.

“Well, we came here for a ceremony, right?” she asked, padding over to her cool box and drawing out a stack of colourful plastic cups and a bottle of champagne. “So, I suggest we have a toast and then dig up the old time capsule. Moody, if you would do the honours?”

Moody took the bottle from Diana, fiddling with the cork until it popped off, the group cheering as some of the golden liquid spilt from the neck of the bottle and onto the ground below, Diana ensuring everyone had a filled cup.

“To the soon to be Mr and Mrs Spurgeon,” Diana toasted, raising her cup in the air.

“To Mr and Mrs Spurgeon,” the group chimed, Gilbert lifting his cup before taking a sip, the bubbles fizzing and popping on his tongue.

“And to the future Mrs Baynard,” Anne announced, lifting her glass and beaming at Diana. Gilbert smiled as he watched her; her eyes expressive, dancing with merriment instead of piercing and cold. Gilbert couldn’t imagine what a look like that from Anne must feel like; perhaps like the first drop of rain after a long spell of draught or the first glimpse of sun breaking through a sky dense with clouds.

“To the future Mrs Baynard,” he repeated, Anne’s eyes meeting his over the baskets and bodies that separated them. She lifted her cup to her mouth, still eyeing him over the rim but instead of a look of contempt radiating from her round blue orbs she appeared suspicious, as if she was questioning his intentions.

They finished their drinks, friendly chatter being shared amongst each other while Moody and Gilbert dug up the capsule, Gilbert pushing a shovel into the earth, tossing loose soil from ground shovelful by shovelful until there was an audible clunk of metal meeting wood. Moody reached into the hole, dragging the heavy trunk from the ground and heaving it into the centre of the group. Anne reached out, running her hand over the lettering she and Ruby had painted on it; the large blooms that decorated the lid. They were paler now, the moisture in the earth fading the pigment of the paint, molecules of dirt crumbed onto the lid and gathered around the clasp.

“Are we ready?” Moody asked, opening the latch and lifting the lid tentatively, peering inside the vessel at the items they had all held so dear. One by one, items were pulled from the trunk, the boys grinning at being reunited with their old soccer jerseys, reminiscing on wins they had achieved and their after-game antics.

Josie marvelled over her old prom photographs, her skin blushing red at the bejewelled bodice that had once been the height of fashion. Tillie tore open her memory jar, reading excerpts from her eighteenth year and giggling at the highlights she had included.

“Apparently, I felt it very important to remind myself I had the best sandwich I had ever tasted on the 18th of December 2013,” she chuckled.

Jane read the track list she had written for the CD she had included, musing, “My taste is still impeccable but it’s unfortunate that I no longer own anything that plays a CD.”

Anne, Ruby and Diana placed the flower crowns they had buried on their heads; the silk flowers wilted at the edges but still vibrant shades of blue, lavender and yellow. Photographs were passed around, Tillie marvelling over how long her hair had been, cropped bluntly to her shoulder now, Jane and Josie declaring they looked the exact same. Anne smiled at her own image; back when she was skinnier, braces fastened to her teeth, her hair loose in some, braided in others. She was exuberant back then; the only thing she had to worry about being her classroom rivalry. She stroked her smiling face softly with a finger; she didn’t feel like that girl anymore. She was still the same height, as freckled and red-headed as ever but she felt heavier now, like she dragged a weight with her that she couldn’t relieve herself of for a moments respite.

“Is that everything?” Moody asked, looking around the pile of treasures spread on the blanket; pictures and postcards, old clothes and souvenirs from school. He glanced inside the box again, noticing a pile of paper that lay flat on the bottom, the first a folded-up list that Gilbert had written.

Moody handed the list to Gilbert, who opened it curiously, chuckling when he read the many achievements he hoped to have accomplish by the time the capsule was unearthed; video games he wished to have completed, sports teams he wanted to join at the University of Toronto. He wished to have been best man to Bash when he married Mary, he read with a smile, remembering how nervous he had been making his speech the day his brother and sister-in-law were wed, and he wanted to have graduated medical school. He had accomplished most of his list, he noted; there were just two things he hadn’t yet achieved. To have an adventure and to be friends with Anne Shirley-Cuthbert. He folded the page hastily, glancing around the faces that encircled him, hoping that no one had been reading over his shoulder.

“And this.” Moody handed a thick cream envelope to Anne, who took it from him with a ‘thank you,’ a small flicker of a smile on her face as she read the neat cursive print on the front; her own flourishing hand. It was the letter she had written to herself detailing all her dreams and her plans for the future. She smoothed her palm over the envelope, confident that eighteen-year-old Anne would be disappointed with the reality twenty-five-year-old Anne lived, but still she felt her stomach flutter; eager to drink in all the passion and enthusiasm for life her younger self had poured into her writing; enthusiasm she currently felt devoid of.

She turned the envelope over in her hand but instead of a flat closed with a butterfly sticker, her letter tucked inside, she found another envelope, a second that had fastened itself to the first with the sticker she had used to seal her own.

Anne peeled the letters apart, her own fluttering to the ground.

“What is it, Anne?” Diana asked, unsettled by how silent her friend had become; the questioning frown that furrowed her forehead.

“It’s a letter,” Anne answered, her voice quiet, a finger lightly tracing the name written on the front. It was her name; the writing angular and spiked, not familiar to her.

“Who is it from?” Diana prompted.

“I have no idea.” Anne turned the envelope over, tearing it open with fumbling fingers and drawing a letter from inside.

Gilbert watched with curiosity as Anne opened the envelope but he felt himself stiffen, his back rigid and his face drained of colour, when she dropped it to the ground, her name facing upwards. He knew that handwriting; it was as familiar to him as the mole on his jawline or the bridge of his nose. It was his.

He swallowed tensely, shooting an anxious glance towards Moody and Charlie, who were rapt as they watched the letter unfold; their faces open and passive, no flicker of recognition or bead of sweat from the guilt of their cruel prank being dug out of the ground seven years too late.

Gilbert felt his mouth go dry, his lungs draw in short, shallow breaths as his head snapped back to Anne, her eyes scanning the letter. He pushed a hand roughly through his hair. How was this possible? How did that stupid letter, penned in a moment of foolishness - of wounded pride and immaturity – find itself in their time capsule, buried deep in the ground? He had watched Billy place it in her locker. There was no way…It wasn’t possible…and yet, there it was, as tangible as Anne herself, locked in her grasp, her slim fingers curled around the edges, her eyes wide as she read.

_Dear Anne…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the letter has entered the chat!  
> Told you we’d see it again soon!
> 
> And I apologise again; I am not 100% happy with this chapter. I know it reads a little biographical at some points and I am too wordy for my own good. 
> 
> Fun fact: the line Ruby says about being on a diet is a direct quote from my grandmother; still the most fabulous woman I know. 
> 
> Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for the lovely comments and interest shown after the prologue! I’m equally excited and terrified at writing this story. I hope I do it justice.
> 
> If you feel like you’d like to leave a little comment, feel free and thanks for reading!
> 
> And happy 10 years to any One Direction fans out there on this auspicious day! x


	3. Chapter Two: ‘I ask you for violence, in the nonsense, and you, you give me grace, your light and your warmth.’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne and Gilbert become unlikely allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, fic friends!
> 
> Hoping everyone is well. This chapter title is drawn from a letter written by Frida Kahlo to Diego Rivera.
> 
> Also, apologies for the very late update. It has taken me a little longer to hit my stride with this story and I really hit a wall with writers block.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this update irregardless x

_Dear Anne…_

Anne paused, running her thumb across the paper to smooth out the fold that creased the centre. She swallowed back, her heart in her throat as she read her name written in an inky blue biro. She had thought the letter may have been put there accidentally. That the letter contained something she was never meant to see; a missive that was written to someone else that had been mistakenly placed in an envelope with her name penned on the front. But there it was, the four little letters that made up her unremarkable name, right down to her beloved ‘e’, written in an unfamiliar cursive; pointed consonants and rounded vowels that tilted slightly to the left.

She wasn’t sure what it was about the letter; it was completely unceremonious in its presentation, scrawled writing on an A4 page ruled in faint blue lines, one edge ragged and uneven as though it had been ripped straight from a school jotter and slipped inside a flimsy office grade envelope, but it felt weighty in her hand. It felt like a secret being whispered to her in the dark, the voice low and velvety, breathing hot air against her ear. It sent a thrill through her, tingling down her spine and leaving her breathless with the anticipation of what the letter held.

She became aware of the silence around her; no gossiping voices of friends, just the gentle rustle of leaves fluttering in the breeze and the distinctive hoot of a woodpigeon in the bough over-head. She glanced around the faces who encircled her, their eyes wide and brows rounded as they waited for her to read it. She laughed breathily.

“Is this letter addressed to _you_?” she asked sarcastically. “Can’t a girl get a little privacy around here?”

“Oh, come on, Anne,” Ruby pouted, batting her lashes playfully. “A mysterious letter shows up in _our_ capsule and you expect us to not be curious?”

“It is _none_ of your business,” Anne laughed, slapping at Ruby’s knee playfully and rolling her eyes as Ruby’s eyes widened, the corners of her lips downturned in a mock puppy-dog face. “It’s not addressed to ‘Anne and Friends.”

“Alright, you guys. Giver her a little privacy,” Diana cajoled, distracting the girls with her engagement tale, Jerry taking her out to a little cabin by the coast as a surprise, spending a week enjoying breakfast on a patio that overlooked a private cove, Jerry dropping to one knee during a sunset walk, the waves shimmering a golden yellow as he asked her to be his wife. Jane, Tillie and Josie swooned as Diana shared her tale, Charlie and Moody joking about Jerry being a closeted hopeless romantic; his silly banter and cheerful disposition masking the poetry in his soul. Anne smiled as she watched them chatter, confident that they were no longer occupied with her, giving her and her letter the privacy she desired.

All but one, she noticed, startled at the burning heat Gilbert Blythe’s gaze brought to her skin, prickling along her collarbone and trailing up her neck, an intensity to his eyes that drew her to him like a siren song, beckoning her to join him in the sea when she should knew she couldn’t swim. His eyes dropped to the letter and a strangled expression ghosted across his features, furrowing his brow, his lips parting slightly as his chest heaved a breath. Anne followed his gaze, her eyes falling upon her letter once more, and she wet her lips with a hasty swipe of her tongue, finding them suddenly dry, as she began to read:

_Dear Anne,_

_Since we are parting ways, perhaps forever, I feel I must unburden my heart; I feel I must let you be privy to my innermost secret; the feelings I have kept hidden deep inside me, scared and confused about what they mean to me, Anne. What you mean to me. But I don’t want to carry that fear anymore. I don’t want to continue my life thinking “what if?” What if I swallowed my pride and told you what I wanted you to hear? What if you felt the same?_

_Anne, I find myself drawn to you; equal parts awed and enchanted by you every day, ever since our very first meeting. That day I saw you, Anne; I saw your soul and your spirit, and I knew that I was lost to you then. I knew my heart was no longer mine but yours; attached to you always by some woven thread that can’t break no matter how hard I try to snap and tear it, or tell myself we aren’t meant to be; that you deserve someone who knows how to love you. You deserve someone who knows what to say and how to act; not just another lonely boy who never has the right words or found the right moment. I hope this letter serves as the right words and the right moment now. _

_I have admired you from afar for so long, trying to catch a glimpse of the glorious sunshine your beautiful smile and exuberant spirit bestows on others while I stay in the dark, wishing it was me you would look at like that. That someday I won’t have to live in a state of wishful thinking and foolish hope; that each stilted conversation will begin to flow and we will realise there is more to us than we originally thought. That each stolen glance would be returned; your eyes on mine, filling me with nervous butterflies and warming flames that I would know you felt too. That someday you would see me; the real me, not some silly schoolboy façade, and you would want me as much as I want you._

_All this to say…I love you, Anne. I believe I always have – and if there is any chance that any part of you might feel the same, please come and meet me tonight at 9pm by the old farmhouse at the park._

_Just the two of us; our hearts and our hands tangled together under the stars._

_With Love._

Anne felt breathless, her eyes roaming over the missive once more, each syllable imprinting onto her soul like a tattoo as her heart raced in her chest. _With love. With love?_ She turned the page over in her hands, searching for initials, a distinctive mark, anything that could make the author known to her. Why would someone have written her this letter, poured so much love into it, letting the feelings they had kept guarded within them free, but not sign their name? She read it again, her eyes following each curl and curve of the pen, breathing in each sentiment. Someone had loved her; they had seen her soul and her spirit and it hadn’t frightened them. They had loved her when she hadn’t loved herself. And just when she needed to hear that most – when she was unsure of her next step, her future dark and her heart despairing – a message appeared reminding her that she was loveable and _worthwhile_ , written in a schoolboy’s hand. She felt her heart swell, glowing with something she hadn’t felt in years. Something that felt like _hope_ ; like she had been stumbling in a dark tunnel for so long, her fingertips grazed and bloodied from grappling at the walls searching for the exit, and someone had suddenly struck a match and illuminated the path. She was suddenly ablaze with possibility; her mind reeling with hopes and dreams, wishes and aspirations that she hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on for fear of disappointing herself. Her dreams of a career she was passionate about, and her own office, lined with bookcases and houseplants and a window that overlooked a majestic tree; of a great love, a partner whose heart and gaze were unwavering. Who loved her unconditionally, despite all her flaws; her bad temper and her red hair. Her body was alight with renewed hope all because someone had _loved_ her; someone had wanted to make their heart known to her when she was in school. They had wanted to meet her under the stars, out in the meadow where the old farmhouse stood, to whisper those words to her in the dark. The letter was a mystery; its author, and the circumstances that led to it being buried underground for years instead of having reached her when it was intended to, a riddle she may never have known the answer to, but she burned with curiosity. She thought of him, standing under the stars, glancing at a Casio watch on his wrist, his shoulders falling when she didn’t arrive, hands pushed into his pockets as he made his way home. She wondered who it could have been, her mind conjuring images of the boys that had been in her senior class. She thought of quiet Cole with the sad eyes, peacocking Roy who flirted with her mercilessly; she thought of Billy and the Pauls. She thought of Gilbert.

She raised her eyes to him once more and found his gaze still lingering on her, his lips parted slightly as he swallowed back, his Adam’s apple bobbing at his throat. His eyes were wide and Anne noticed a hidden depth to them; something swirling amongst the flecks of gold and green. It was an emotion she had never seen in him before, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes enveloping hers in a searching gaze; a gaze that made her feel hot, a startling heat simmering low in her belly. It wasn’t…It couldn’t have been…? It didn’t make _sense_ for it to have been Gilbert who had written it. Their rivalry was long and bitter, their dislike of each other mutual, but as Anne watched him now, his chest rising and falling with each hurried breath as though he had just sprinted a marathon, Anne found herself questioning if there was more to Gilbert Blythe than she had originally thought. If, below all the pomp and bravado, the arrogant smile and the confident swagger, there was someone not unlike her; someone who had seen worth in her, who had harboured a secret childhood crush.

“What does it say, Anne?” Diana asked, breaking the spell Gilbert’s gaze had cast on Anne, both tearing their eyes roughly from the other, a blush creeping up Gilbert’s neck as his head ducked, his eyes ghosting over the grass and the daisy heads, settling finally on the toes of his Chucks. Anne glanced at him hastily, her heart thundering in her chest, before her eyes found Diana who eyed her with a questioning gaze, a gentle smile on her pretty, round face.

“Uhm, it’s…” Anne folded the letter once more, concealing its message from her friends’ prying eyes. She had forgotten that they didn’t know what the letter had detailed. She had been so lost in Gilbert’s gaze, distracted by how his confident shell had seemed to dissolve as he stared at her, leaving a vulnerable underbelly exposed as she held letter the letter between her fingers. It was almost as though he _knew_ what it held; he was aware of the declaration of love concealed beneath its folds. Anne shook her head lightly, drawing in a steadying breath the quell her racing heart. It _couldn’t_ have been written by Gilbert. He was the most unlikely of all her childhood classmates to have penned her a love letter. And yet, he was the only one who appeared to have recognised it’s magnitude, the weight of what it held. Anne cleared her throat, smiling brightly at Diana as she forced the words out. “It’s a love letter.”

It had felt foolish to say out loud. Anne knew she wasn’t the type of girl who received love letters or was even deserving of them, but as she watched Diana’s eyes widen, her mouth gasping in a shocked breath, she found herself laugh. It was a ridiculous situation; a boyish hand writing the very words that the current Anne, the Anne who was stuck in a limbo, trapped between the girl she had been and the woman she wished to become, had wanted to hear. Diana slipped the letter from her hand, passing the paper to Ruby who clapped excitedly, both of them scanning it with wide, shining eyes as Josie snorted. And despite the pandemonium, her letter and the private sentiment it had detailed being passed from hand to hand, each of her friend’s drinking in the words and questioning who it could have been from, Anne couldn’t take her eyes from Gilbert, analysing each of his movements, each flickering expression, as he took the letter at Moody’s insistence and read it, his brow furrowing slightly, a secretive smile dance across his lips. He glanced upwards, his eyes finding hers. Anne flummoxed, tearing her gaze from hastily, hoping he hadn’t noticed her staring.

“Sounds like you were pretty popular to someone, Carrots,” he drawled, a smirking smile to his face as he stretched his hand between them, passing her the letter. She swallowed back, blushing at his teasing tone as she took it from his fingers, his hand brushing hers briefly causing her skin to pucker into goosepimples. What was _wrong_ with her? It couldn’t have been him, she reminded herself. He didn’t like her in school and she certainly didn’t like him, so why was the very thought of it having been Gilbert who had wrote the letter causing her to behave like a schoolgirl once more, bumbling before him as she blushed brightly?

Anne was drawn from her head and back into the present by a cackling voice; a raucous rip of laughter reminding her that she was not alone with Gilbert Blythe. Anne searched for the source of the sound, finding Josie laughing, a menacing smile to her face.

“This is a joke, right?” she scoffed, glancing around the others. She gestured towards the note in Anne’s hand. “It _has_ to be a joke. Like _anyone_ fancied Anne in school.” She looked around the others wildly. “No offense,” she added hastily in a weak attempt to mask her insult as a playful jibe, but it was too late. The wound had already been torn open; Anne was reminded of the lack of male attention she had received in school. Not that she ever wanted or _needed_ a boyfriend in school, but after years of being over-looked in favour of her friends, who had prettier faces and curlier hair, she found it had left an indent on her self-esteem. Why was she never considered pretty enough to have been deserving of the same attention? She was the ugly duckling in a bevy of swans; freckles blemishing her skin while theirs’ was a perfect ivory, the colour of the moon. Her studious nature and quick bursts of temper were intimidating, she recalled, the majority of the male population cowering from her in the classroom.

“Josie!” Diana scolded, swatting at her crossly. “That was really mean.”

“Well, it’s true,” Josie sulked, crossing her arms defensively over her chest.

Anne smiled tightly, tucking her letter back into the envelope and slipping it into her pocket. “No, she’s right,” she declared brightly, her voice forced and painful with the lump that had swelled in her throat. She tried to appear unbothered, confident and unaffected by the letter under the gang’s sympathetic gazes, but she felt her heart constrict painfully. It was funny to Anne how one statement had the capability of vanquishing all the hope and joy she had just felt; how the joy that had illuminated the cavity of her chest just moments before had suddenly been extinguished, plummeting her into darkness once more. Why hadn’t she considered that? Of _course_ , it had been a prank. Anne wasn’t the type of girl that boys fell in love with. She wasn’t a bubble-gum girl; a sugary sweet disposition that left kisses like cotton candy fizzing on the tip of tongues. She didn’t have soft curves at her waist and dark eyelashes that she batted coquettishly. She didn’t have a tinkling laugh or a face that looked like sunshine. She was the earth; jagged and rocky, one misstep sending anyone who attempted to navigate her toppling towards the ground, a sharp gash to their shin and grazes scoring their palms. She wasn’t saccharine sweet; she tasted of sea salt and fresh herbs and red peat; earthy and wild. She had a terrible temper, synonymous with her hair colour. She should have _known_ it hadn’t been true; like anyone would be able to see beneath her hard exterior to find the softness hidden underneath. How foolish she was, to think someone would look at her _that_ way; warm honeyed eyes gazing at her longingly.

“Don’t listen to her, Anne,” Diana urged, placing her hand comfortingly on her arm. “It’s a beautiful letter. And I’m sure the intentions of whoever wrote it were well meant.” Her hand found Anne’s, squeezing it lightly as she smiled encouragingly.

“Diana, it’s fine,” Anne reassured her, shrugging in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner, drawing her shoulders towards her ears and allowing them to drop. “If it was meant in earnest then it’s seven years too late. We’ve both moved on I’m sure. And if it was a joke, then it’s harmless. I’m fine. I’m not hurt. My pride is still intact.”

The rest of the picnic passed uneventfully, the group of friends lounging under the summer sun, sharing stories of the time they had spent apart, but Anne found she couldn’t concentrate, adding an ‘ah’ or ‘is that right?’ where she felt them necessary, her mind only half-registering the topic of conversation. Her mind was racing with the letter. In truth, despite what she had told Diana, she _cared_ about it. She was desperate to know where it came from; desperate to find out the truth behind its intentions. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there had been truth to what Josie said, that it had all been some great joke, someone chuckling as they wrote it, imagining the way in which Anne’s heart would have soared reading it, before it crashed back to earth like a glider that had lost the momentum of the breeze when its true intentions were exposed. Was she to meet some handsome, mysterious stranger under the stars or was it a ploy to get her alone? She _needed_ to know, her wounded pride cloying for an answer to the riddle. Who would have been so cruel to have played into one of her greatest insecurities; her need to be liked and her desire to be _loved_?

There was a burst of masculine laughter and Anne found herself drawn from her head and thrust back into reality, sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket facing a curly haired boy who had been her greatest childhood tormentor. And suddenly a lightbulb had switched on, the riddle of the letter solved with one questioning glance. She had thought, just for a _moment_ , that he had written each word honestly, that he had harboured tender feelings for her, lashing out at her in order to protect himself from getting hurt, and she had been half right. She was confident he had written it, although his intentions had been askew. It was a ploy. One last twist of the knife before they graduated high school and separated.

Anne clung to romance. She loved to read about great, sweeping sagas; tales of love triangles and haughty heroines, aloof heroes who never had the right words to make their hearts known. Anne wanted to _feel_ love. She spent her adolescence becoming well versed in the game of love and it’s rules; of Emma and Knightley and a love that blossomed from friendship, or Fanny and Edmund, who’s love was gentle, having to survive the heartache before they could appreciate the tenderness, or Lizzie and Darcy who’s love was disguised as something else, a frosty acquaintance that melted into a tender love. Anne wished to feel that but she was fearful that she would never; that she was a broken doll in a toybox, awaiting the day a hand reached in and chose her but instead gathering dust as all the other toys went on wild and imaginative adventures.

She wasn’t sure how Gilbert would have known that; how he would have become aware of her fear that she would always be lonely, but he must have. If it was a prank then he was the most obvious mastermind. He had _loathed_ her in school, and the feeling had been mutual. She didn’t make life easy for him, although she reasoned he deserved it. Of course, he had written it; who else would have enjoyed humiliating her so much?

Anne simmered, planning her confrontation as the air grew chillier, the evening creeping in around them. They began to pack up their belongings, refilling baskets and carefully folding blankets before ambling back towards the cars. Gilbert strolled ahead of her and Anne jogged to catch up with his long strides, her hand reaching out instinctively to encircle his wrist drawing him to a halt. He spun to see who had stopped him, his smooth brow furrowing with confusion as his gaze dropped to their hands, Anne’s fingers curled tightly around his forearm, his hand clenched instinctively into a fist as his skin burnt beneath her pal. She dropped her gaze too, tearing her hand from him abruptly as his gaze ghosted the length of her torso, his eyes meeting hers.

He laughed breathily. “Can I help you?” he asked, the smirk returning to his face as his eyes remained locked to hers.

“I…uhm.”

“Yes?”

Anne felt her heart beat wildly, his eyes unnerve her, drawing a flush to her skin. She had never been so close to him before, so close that she could see freckles dust across the bridge of his nose and spatter across his cheeks, swirls of gold illuminating his hazel eyes like stars peppering a night sky. She had steeled herself, ready to lunge with the lance, but she found her resolve wither under his gaze.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice impatient as the others called to them from the car. She glanced at them briefly, Diana waving to her from across the grass.

“Come on, Anne,” she yelled, beckoning her with a wave of her hand. Anne turned back to Gilbert, finding him still watching her, his eyebrows curving questioningly. She bristled at the curving smile to his lips. She was still some ridiculous joke to him, even after all this time.

“I bet you think you’re really funny,” she hissed, lowering her voice so she was out of earshot of the others.

“Care to explain what you’re talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play innocent,” she goaded, stepping closer to him, her finger pushing accusingly into his chest. “You know what I’m talking about. You _heard_ Josie. That letter was a joke and who else would have planted it but you?”

“Me?” he shot defensively, huffing an incredulous laugh as she neared him once more, crowding his space and causing his heart to gallop. “And what would I have gained from it, huh? Maybe it escaped your notice but I don’t _like_ you.”

“Isn’t that the whole point?” she argued, planting her hands on her hips. “You hiding it so it’s a big joke a few years later. “Ha-ha, pathetic Anne, still all alone”.”

“And how was I supposed to know you’d still be alone?” he shot, his body so close to hers that he towered over her, his chest a hair’s breadth from hers. She felt her heart race as she glowered at him, his gaze lowered to meet hers, a flash to his eyes. It felt dangerous, being in such close proximity to his body, her skin ablaze with fire; anger and spite clenching her stomach to remind her that she _loathed_ him.

“Anne!”

Gilbert drew back at Diana’s call, the tension that was crackling under Anne’s skin leaching from her pores as he distanced himself.

“Look, there’s no point fighting about this,” he shrugged, his gaze slipping to her mouth briefly. “You’re going to think what you want to think anyway.” Anne swallowed back, a shiver tickle down her spine as he shoved his hands deep in his pockets, nodding towards Diana. “I think you have to go.”

She nodded briefly, her heart racing as her mind grappled with _why_ she found it so difficult to peel her gaze from him. It wasn’t a _new_ reaction exactly; she had always found herself becoming entrapped by his eyes, his gaze pinning her in place as they faced off across a classroom, but after all this time, it was strange how easily it all rushed back to her, the instinctual reaction her body had to his; her blood coursing through her, her stomach twisting violently.

She turned from him slowly, rotating towards Diana and her little blue car when she held a hand at her elbow, spinning her back to him, his eyes meeting hers once more.

“Just so you know, I was as shocked to see that letter in there as you were.” Anne studied him, the corner of his mouth quirking with a semblance of a smile, his eyes boring into hers, a seriousness to them, a softness as they flickered between hers. She felt her mouth go dry, her tongue wet her lips as his hand raised slowly, finding the end of her braid and tugging it lightly, “Carrots.”

He smiled softly, as though they were old friends who had just shared a private joke. Anne tore her braid from his soft grip, and spinning from him, raced across the grass towards Diana, her skin hot from his gaze. He was bold, she thought, tugging at her hair again. Had he not learnt his lesson the first time around? She climbed into the passenger seat of Diana’s car, shrugging casually as Diana probed her on what she had been talking to Gilbert about.

“Oh, nothing,” Anne mumbled as Diana reversed from her parking space. “I was just asking him something.” But she found herself glance towards him once more, still standing in the same spot on the grass, his hand rubbing roughly across his jaw as he watched her.

“It looked a little heated to be just a question,” Diana observed, the indicator blinking as she turned onto the main street.

“Well it was,” Anne rushed, wondering why she was suddenly defensive of Gilbert Blythe when she was usually so critical, dissecting each of his movements after being in his company and utilising them to fuel her hatred of him.

But she felt he had been truthful with her, his expression genuine. He hadn’t put the letter in the trunk. It wasn’t him. Anne slipped her hand into her pocket, her thumb brushing the paper softly. It was a puzzle she would never piece together, she supposed. And what difference would it make anyway? It was just a silly letter. It didn’t matter who had written it or their reasons why. He would have moved on anyway. He was probably a solicitor or a doctor or a pharmacist; someone more successful than her, pacing ahead, his focus on the future and not on some freckled figure of his past. He probably went home to a beautiful, bubbly blonde with a radiant smile. He probably moved in impressive circles and drank expensive scotch. All the while, she was stuck in the same spot.

No, she would forget all about her letter and its mysterious author. Why would someone like that want someone like her anyway?

**********

Anne’s eyes drifted to the clock on the wall, the hands ticking noisily in the quiet office. It had been a slow Thursday and Anne had finished her latest article that was to be published in the next issue of _The Avonlea Gazette._ Ted had gone out earlier in the day on a ‘special assignment’ which Anne, Ka’kwet and Charlie all knew was a four-hour lunch break that was charged to their team’s meagre expense account, but they didn’t mind. It was peaceful in the office when he wasn’t there, looming over them like Dracula himself, draining their energy and blackening their moods through his changeable temper and increasing demands. Anne glanced towards Charlie. It was edging closer to three in the afternoon and Anne knew he had an appointment to interview Mr Boulter after his shop had been victim to another robbery. Anne and Ka’kwet had laughed as Charlie told them the details of the attack earlier that day, his face solemn.

“Two boys, he thinks,” he had lamented mournfully. “They stole a magazine and two KitKats.” Anne clutched at her sides as she chuckled, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t know why you’re laughing, Anne. This is _very_ serious.”

“What type of magazine was it?” Ka’kwet asked, her cheeks rouged from her laughter.

“A _Playboy,_ I believe.”

The girls fell apart again, Ka’kwet hanging over her desk as she laughed, her long hennaed braids falling over her shoulders, Anne sinking back in her chair.

“And the flavour of KitKat?” Anne choked, wiping her eyes with the cuff of her cardigan.

“Peanut butter.”

“Goodness gracious, not peanut butter!” Charlie had bristled as they laughed, casting his eyes upwards.

Charlie was a serious soul, taking great pride in his position in the team, Ted often asking him to undertake the ‘heavier’ articles such as the petty theft of Mr Boulter’s general store, and he was a diligent timekeeper. Anne knew it would only be another minute before he left the office to conduct his interview, arriving at Mr Boulter’s punctually. Anne was restless; she needed him to leave sooner. She had to speak to Ka’kwet alone, away from the prying ears of Charlie or Ted.

She watched from under her lashes as Charlie stood from his chair, flexing his fingers before him, before lifting his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

“Alright. I’m off to see Mr Boulter,” he announced.

“Do you want to take a bullet proof vest just in case another armed robbery happens while you’re there?” Ka’kwet asked cheekily from her seat.

“Ha-ha,” he retorted sarcastically. “At least I’m getting a little bit of action.”

“From Mr Boulter?” Anne quipped. “You lucky, lucky boy.”

Charlie flushed red as the girls giggled, hurrying from the office, the door slamming on his back.

“We give him too hard a time, sometimes,” Ka’kwet giggled as he left it.

“You can’t say he doesn’t deserve it,” Anne quipped, listening as the heavy door that led to the street clattered shut.

“Anne!”

“What?” Anne chuckled, her eyes wide in mock innocence. “If we have to listen to him moaning all day, I think we are allowed to make a little joke.”

Ka’kwet leaned forward on her elbows, a sly smile on her face. “I think he fancies you, you know?”

“Charlie?” Anne sputtered incredulously. He was so bland and grouchy. He wasn’t at _all_ her type of person. “Fiddlesticks! He’s always grumbling at me over something.”

“I think he’s trying to flirt,” Ka’kwet laughed.

“Well, he’s terrible at it.”

“Maybe he hasn’t gotten past that _I-like-you-so-I’m-going-to-be-mean-to-you_ phase,” Ka’kwet shrugged, turning back to her computer.

“Wait, that was a phase?” Anne thought of all the boys in school that had been mean to her before; Billy and the Paul’s, Gilbert Blythe. She felt a hotness to her cheeks when she thought of him and what she had accused him off the weekend previous, the flush he had brough to her cheeks as his eyes locked to hers, his voice low and rumbling as he told her he was just as surprised by the letter. She had dwelt on that sentiment for longer than she wished too. He hadn’t put the letter in the trunk, she had believed him on that count. But she found that she was hurt, her heart clenching like a fist had closed around it, at the thought of him being surprised that _someone_ had written her a love letter. That he thought her so truly unlikeable that he would be shocked at a romantic missive being penned to her.

She swung in her desk chair, nipping the end of a pen between her teeth. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

Ka’kwet glanced over the top of her monitor, an eyebrow quirked. “Sounds serious.”

Anne reached under her desk, her hand delving into her satchel and tearing her letter from among her belongings, passing it to Ka’kwet, who took it with a questioning glance. “And this is?”

“A love letter,” she announced, laughing breathily. “At least, I _think_ it’s a love letter.” Anne shrugged as Ka’kwet unfolded the paper, running her fingers down the ragged edge. Anne held her breath, her lips moving silently, reciting each syllable penned in the letter that now lay before her friend.

Anne had vowed to herself she wouldn’t think of the love letter again; that she would forget about it and let the mystery of its author go. She couldn’t believe she had considered it having been written by Gilbert Blythe. For a moment, she had actually thought he had written it in _earnest_ , his eyes captivating her, sending an unfamiliar heat through her as she was enveloped in his gaze. But that thought had come tumbling down with Josie’s harsh observation; that it had been a prank. She bristled as she thought of Gilbert’s words when she had confronted him; “Look, there’s no point in arguing about this.”

He had grown up, she realised. Their pettiness was a one-sided battle now, his voice weary as he reasoned with her. While she was still thrashing about in the shallow pool, he had advanced into the deep end, his striking frame cutting languidly through the water. He was successful, a _doctor_ , with a stunningly beautiful girlfriend. Why had she thought that he would have paid her a second thought as he moved on? He had left Avonlea behind him; including her and whatever rivalry they had. A prank like that would have been stupid; it would have lost its power if she had have been sitting with someone, her friends admiring a glinting ring on _her_ finger. But there wasn’t. There never was.

She had vowed to herself on Saturday she wouldn’t think of the love letter again. She would forget about it because it made no difference to her now. It came into her possession seven years too late. And yet, when she got home, she found herself ripping it from the envelope again, pouring over it for any clues to who wrote it. She placed it onto her dressing table, telling herself that she would bin it later, but later, as she was brushing her hair, she found herself reading it again, drinking in each word as though it was a cup of water gulped back after a long day in the blistering summer sun. She read it before she slept and when she woke again the next morning. She read it as she brushed her hair into a ponytail and patted blush into her cheeks. She read it in bed before she fell asleep instead of reading the next chapter of her book. She had read it so often during the week that she found she could recite it word for word, enjoying the feel of each syllable as they rolled of her tongue. She had spoken to Diana and Ruby about it during the week, both of her friends still puzzling over the author, Anne still insisting she didn’t care who it was. But that morning, as she fastened her hair into a long, neat French braid, something compelled her to lift the letter and hide it in her bag, cycling to work with it resting against her hip, itching to have Ka’kwet read it and give her an honest opinion on what it could mean. Was it possible that it was true? That someone had cared for her that tenderly? What if he was still out there, the words “what if?” still echoing around his mind. What if Anne had have turned up that night? What if she had heard him out? How different her life might have been if the letter had come into her possession when it was intended too.

Ka’kwet was two years younger than Anne but she was infinitely wiser. She always provided Anne with sound advice, analysing everything from opposing sides and providing Anne with a reasoned conclusion. Anne trusted her implicitly and she _knew_ Ka’kwet would know what she should do about the letter; if she should crumple the paper into a ball and toss it in the rubbish, forgetting it had ever been unearthed, or if she should revel in the glowing warmth and comfort that the words had filled the cavity of her dark, hollow chest with since she had first read it on Saturday? 

Ka’kwet released a long, low breath through rounded lips, glancing at Anne before dropping her eyes back to the letter.

“It’s not signed,” she stated plainly.

“Yes, I know.” Anne moved around her desk, perching on the edge of Ka’kwet’s to read over her shoulder.

“How peculiar he didn’t sign it.”

“I thought it was strange too,” Anne admitted. “And there’s nothing _at all_ that would give me a clue to who wrote it other than the fact that I know he was in my class and I know he’s a _he_.” She watched as Ka’kwet leant back in her seat, her narrow shoulders sinking into the thin blue padding. “What do you think it means?” Anne questioned.

“I _think,_ Anne,” she began, “it means someone had a big, fat crush on you.”

“Oh.”

Ka’kwet laughed at her friend’s reaction, the slump to her shoulders as she nipped at a jagged cuticle.

“But that much was obvious, right?” she grinned. “I also _think_ that it’s strange it’s come to you now.”

Anne’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Are you happy, Anne?” Ka’kwet asked bluntly. “Because, and I don’t want to pry, but I don’t think you are.”

“I am happy,” Anne insisted, smiling tightly to prove her point.

“Could you be happier?” Ka’kwet quizzed.

“Well, yeah,” Anne admitted, shrugging lightly as she considered her life; her stagnant career and lack of relationship. She wanted _more_ than what she had. “Couldn’t everyone?”

“Actually no, Anne. Some people are happy with what they have.” Ka’kwet leant forward, taking Anne’s hands in hers. “Why aren’t you?”

“I – I’m just…” Anne paused, searching her mind for the right words to describe where she was currently. She had stopped at a checkpoint, the game had saved automatically, but the next level wouldn’t load. It felt like she would be stuck here forever; in this horrible little office with a fan whirring noisily in the corner, Charlie grumbling behind his computer monitor and Ted raging from the doorway of his office. “I’m a little stuck,” she admitted, tears stinging at her eyes.

“Do you remember when I told you your luck was about to change?”

Anne nodded, a flicker of a smile on her face as she recalled her excitement over the job in _The Charlottetown Chronicle;_ an opportunity that never blossomed into fruition.

“Well, what if this is it?” Ka’kwet’s eyes glowed with excitement. “Anne, what if the universe has sent this to you now because it wants you to _look_ for him?”

Anne stared at Ka’kwet, her mouth rounding into a shocked little ‘o’. She had been _curious_ of who he was but she had never thought to look for him; tracking down her male classmates one at a time until she found the one, testing if there was a spark she had missed the first time around; something about him that had gone unnoticed.

“What if I find him and he has moved on?” Anne asked, her fingers fidgeting nervously, picking at her cuticles.

“Isn’t happiness worth the risk?”

Anne felt her mouth curve into a smile, lifting the letter from Ka’kwet’s desk and scanning it once more, her eyes landing on one line that felt particularly prominent to her today; words that felt like they speaking to her, the voice low and gravelly.

_I don’t want to continue my life thinking “What if?”_

What if? What if she ignored this letter and missed a chance to get to know someone who was meant to be hers? What if he was just as lost as she was, swimming against the tide, his arms tired and his body limp, ready to give up as the waves crashed over him? What if he was her life jacket, keeping her afloat when she felt like she was going under? What if he held the key to her happiness? What if? What if? What if?

“I’m going to do it,” Anne announced suddenly, her voice breathy with laughter as the words tumbled from her lips. She had surprised herself in saying them. She wasn’t someone who believed in fate, in stars aligning and everything falling into place, being in the right place at the right time, but she believed in love and she believed in life, and she was ready to experience hers again. “I’m going to find him.”

“That’s my girl.” Ka’kwet grinned, patting Anne’s knee. “The universe always gives us the push we need, Anne.”

Anne moved back to her desk, smiling as she tucked her letter away again, trailing her thumb tenderly across the salutation; ‘ _Dear Anne.’_

Anne had been a cynic for so long; her lust for life dying the night Matthew did, but suddenly there was a flicker of something beautiful illuminating the dark hollow of her heart. Something as bright and as hopeful as the song of a lark in the morning.

Anne had once believed in destiny and soulmates, in invisible strings that fastened one heart to another, but she had lost that part of her; the magical element of her soul that believed in fairy tales and love at first sight. But here, just when she needed it the most, when there was a darkness dwelling inside her that made her feel as though she was no longer herself, an opportunity appeared for her to change her destiny. To make her own luck and to find her own dream. She had shared a classroom with him for five years and had never caught him staring at her with a blush to his cheeks, tripping over himself to get her attention. But, like Brigadoon emerging from the fog, fate had offered her another chance to get to know him. It had offered her another chance to dream and to get to know herself.

**********

Ruby Gillis sighed wearily, turning her key in the lock and shouldering her way through the door of her apartment, the door juddering open. It was an old door, the wood swollen slightly and the hinges stiff. She reminded herself to oil it, just another thing to add to her ever-increasing list. She threw her car keys onto the little table in their hall, pattering into the little kitchen and dropping her bag and jacket onto the island. It had been a long day and her mind was restless. Ruby had worked the early shift at the hospital, as she always did, pacing the male medical ward changing dressings and sheets, handing out bedpans to those who needed them and providing support to those who felt well enough to get to their feet and stretch their legs; soothing worries with a cheerful smile. The hospital was severely underfunded, a shortage of doctors meaning that the nurses took on extra responsibilities, drawing blood samples and updating medical charts after medication had been administered through an IV lead. She found herself bone tired constantly, her skin sallow and her hair thinning with the stress. The pressures from work were enough but she still had so much to do before her wedding; cake tastings and decorations to buy, table plans to complete, rearranging the seating to accommodate Moody’s aunt and uncle who were recently divorced and _couldn’t_ be within five metres of each other, their children taking opposing sides in the rift. She had had her own dress fitting that afternoon, the lunchtime traffic heavy as she drove from Charlottetown to Carmody, to the little bridal boutique there.

Ruby had always dreamed of having her wedding dress custom made by Jeannie and when Moody had proposed she rang early the next morning to get an appointment, knowing Jeannie kept a long and exclusive list of clients, and Ruby was lucky that she agreed to make hers. It had been her final fitting and she had invited her bridesmaids to see her dress, Anne and Diana already inside the shop when Ruby had pulled up alongside the kerb fifteen minutes late, racing through the door still dressed in her pink scrubs.

“I’m sorry,” she apologised, pulling them both into a tight hug. “Work was _manic_ and the traffic was terrible.”

The shop assistant shook her head, tutting loudly. “I’ll get your dress then,” she grumbled. “You were only booked in for an hour.”

She breezed out of the room, glowering as she trudged up to the storage space above, Anne, Diana and Ruby giggling like schoolgirls being scolded by a teacher as they perched on the edge of a golden embossed chaise longue that sat behind a floor-length gilded mirror.

“Well, she’s a ray of sunshine,” Anne chuckled, glancing around the rows of dresses that lined the walls. “Can you believe we’re actually seeing your _wedding_ dress? It feels like no time at all ago that we were all sitting in a classroom together.”

“I know,” Ruby agreed. “Time has just flown, hasn’t it?” Her hand found Diana’s, squeezing it gently. “And we’ll be dress shopping all over again soon.”

Diana smiled, her cheeks turning rosy and her eyes large. “And Anne won’t be too far after us.” Her hand slipped into Anne’s, the three girls cuddling close like they had done in school.

Anne sighed heavily, resting her head against Diana’s shoulder. “I don’t know about _that,_ ” she murmured. “I think you need to be, oh I don’t know, getting _married_ to look for a wedding dress.”

Ruby and Diana giggled. “Well, you could meet someone, couldn’t you?” Diana encouraged, drawing back to tuck a strand of red hair behind Anne’s ear. Diana and Ruby had always wished that Anne would meet someone. She was charming and so deserving of love and happiness. When they were in school, she always argued she didn’t want a relationship, that she was to be the bride of adventure and live her life as a lone wolf, but Anne had a romantic soul and the girls saw the looks she would have thrown to Gilbert Blythe under her lashes, long stares when she thought no one else was looking. They knew that the thought of love scared her; her fear of rejection and her low self-esteem halting her from taking a risk. “You’re not some sort of hideous ogre!” Diana joked.

Anne gasped, smacking at Diana playfully. “I’m not,” she laughed. “And yet even _Shrek_ met someone. I’m still waiting.” She sighed, leaning forward and propping her elbow against her knee, balancing her chin on top. “I’ve been thinking though,” she began, catching her lip between her teeth as her brow furrowed.

“What about?” Ruby prompted.

“I’ve been thinking about my letter. You remember the one from the time capsule?”

Ruby and Diana nodded. They wouldn’t admit to Anne but they had both been wild with curiosity about who had written it; Ruby insisting it had been Cole McKenzie as she had caught him sketching a picture of Anne once, smiling softly as he traced her wide mouth, her lips parted in a smile. Diana had hypothesised that it was Roy. He had flirted mercilessly with Anne in school, always greeting her with a charming smile; he seemed the most likely candidate but as she had watched Gilbert and Anne together on Saturday, both of them chest to chest, standing so close that he could have drawn her into a kiss, a glimmer to his eyes that Diana hadn’t seen since high school, Diana found herself wishing it was him. He and Anne were more similar than they realised, both too passionate and proud, but there was a ripple beneath the reproachful stares, a spark of something greater.

“Well,” Anne continued, splaying her hands flat against her knees and taking a steadying breath. “I’m going to find him.”

“Anne!” Ruby gasped. “You’re going to look for him?”

Anne blushed, a gurgle of breathless laughter expelling from her chest as she buried her face in her hands. “I am,” she groaned, drawing her hands away from her cheeks. “I know it’s foolish but I _need_ to know who he is. I feel like there’s something that is connecting me to him, like I can’t move on unless I know…”

Ruby felt her lips press together; her eyes watery as Anne smiled brightly. She looked a little more like herself again, a glow pinkening the cheeks that had been sallow and dull for so long; a magical twinkle back in her eye. The old Anne had been hibernating for four years, and finally she had peeked an eye open, yawning and stretching as she came back to life. Ruby had waited for this moment for so long, and she wasn’t sure who she was to thank, but she owed the author of the love letter _so_ much. Her best friend was dreaming again, her imagination limitless.

“We’ll help you find him, won’t we, Di?”

“No,” Anne cried. “You both have so much to do. Diana, you’re still teaching and Ruby, you’re planning a wedding, for goodness sake! I can look for him on my own.”

“But what if he’s a total creep,” Ruby grimaced. “If we can find someone to help you, will you allow them to?”

“Not Charlie,” Anne asserted, her eyes growing wide. Charlie was the only boy from their class that remained in Avonlea and, as he and Moody had remained close, Ruby often pressured Anne to accompany Charlie, herself and Moody on a double date. Anne had enough of Charlie Sloane at work without willingly spending time with him outside of their office. “Please not Charlie!”

“Alright,” Ruby grinned as the assistant bustled back into the room with her dress zipped in a black garment bag, beckoning for Ruby to follow her to the changing room at the back of the store. “But you’ll accept help if I can get someone to help you.”

“Sure,” Anne agreed unthinkingly. “Now _go!_ You don’t have much time left.”

Ruby’s dress had been perfect; exactly what she had envisioned, and she and her friends clung together in a tight embrace when they had seen her in it, Anne’s eyes filling with tears straight away, claiming Ruby to be “the most beautiful bride Avonlea will ever see”, Diana scoffing loudly and grumbling in mock protest, “And what about _me!”_

Ruby hadn’t been able to take her eyes off herself, turning this way and that as she stared at her dress, the cream silk that flowed over the full skirt twirling elegantly as she moved. She was so excited for Moody to see her in it, picturing his eyes glassy as she approached him down the long aisle of their local cathedral, and when she had changed back into her scrubs, thanking the apathetic shop assistant as she left the store, her dress lovingly draped across her arm, she found herself mentally checking another box off her list.

She searched through her handbag, pulling her diary from within it, opening it to her to-do list and scoring through the note that reminded her of her dress appointment. It would stay at Diana’s until the happy day to remove the temptation for Moody to take a premature peek. She ran her pen down the remaining things that needed to be done; her bridesmaids dresses needed fitted, hair appointments booked. She needed to meet her florist to finalise bouquet styles, and Moody’s suit needed fitted. She had to buy them both shoes and find ties that matched the antique pink of Anne and Diana’s dresses. She needed to meet the caterers and organise centre pieces. She felt her chest constrict with the pressure of all that was left to be done. This was meant to be a happy time, it was supposed to be fun, but Ruby felt overwhelmed, taking on all the responsibility so as to not bother Moody.

She stopped at the final point written on her list, two names scrawled together; _Anne and Gilbert,_ one of her biggest worries. She and Moody needed their support, they needed them to both be on the same team, working together instead of pushing against each other. They were maid of honour and best man; they would be spending time together this summer whether they enjoyed it or not, but for Ruby’s sake she needed them to be friendly. She didn’t need the added stress of wondering if Anne was upset or if Gilbert was enjoying himself. She had too much else to think about.

“Hello?” she called out, moving through their narrow apartment towards the bedroom at the back, finding Moody changing after a shower.

“Hey,” he greeted, moving towards her and planting a kiss to her cheek. “How did the dress fitting go?”

“Perfectly,” she grinned, collapsing onto their bed, sighing heavily. “It is everything I wanted and more.”

“I’m glad,” he grinned. “Not that you’d look good in a bin liner.” He waited for a giggle, for her to slap at him playfully and declare him a ‘ _schmoozer’_ but she lay still, staring at the ceiling, a crease between her brows. He planted his hands on his hips, watching her with a concerned furrow. She had looked tired recently, not at all her vivacious self. “What’s up?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she rambled, but her lip began to wobble as she sat up. “I just feel a little _overwhelmed_ by everything.”

“Ruby,” Moody breathed, sitting beside her and drawing her into a tight hug. “What’s on your mind?”

“Everything,” Ruby wept, her face buried into the crook of his shoulder. “Work and the wedding and Anne.”

“What’s wrong with Anne?” Moody quizzed as Ruby drew away, wiping the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs.

“It’s not that there is something _wrong_ with her, really,” Ruby explained, sniffing and wiping at her eyes. “Quite the opposite really. She’s going to look for the guy who wrote that letter. And I’m so _happy_ that she is. I mean, it may not lead to anything but she’s finally _doing_ something again. I told her I’d get someone to help her find him but she’s insisting it’s not Charlie.”

“Why does she need someone to help her?”

“It’s a scavenger hunt, Moody!” Ruby cried, her eyes widening as she swiped at his arm. “She can’t do it all alone!”

“Why not?” Moody asked, shrugging his shoulders as the smile slid from his fiancée’s face.

“For moral support? How many of us stayed in Avonlea after school?” Moody nodded. They had all scattered like seedlings in the wind after school. Anne, Charlie and Diana had all moved back to Avonlea, the others settling farther afield; Charlottetown, Toronto, America, Europe. “And besides, what if they turn out to be some sort of psycho and she’s all alone?”

“I see,” Moody chuckled. Ruby was a fierce friend; Diana and Anne closer to her than her own sisters. She would do whatever was in her power to make them happy, but Moody had noticed how frail she had become in the past months; how hard she was working to plan the perfect wedding in between long, draining days nursing. “I could ask Gilbert if he could help?” he suggested.

“Gilbert?”

“Yeah, why not? He’s the only one with no other commitments this summer,” he shrugged.

“Gilbert,” Ruby parroted, a sly smile tug at her lips as a plan formulated. He would be the _perfect_ person for the job. If he agreed to help Anne that would mean they would have to spend more time together; they could learn to tolerate each other. And if Anne and Gilbert were getting along, then that was another thing she could tick of her list. She planted a kiss to Moody’s lips.

“You are a genius,” she declared. “Give him a call, will you?”

**********

Bash was flustered, pacing the kitchen with a wailing Elijah cuddled close to his chest, the little boy half dressed in a striped t-shirt and his diaper, one sock on his foot. He had broken one of his toy trucks, the wheel coming loose as he played with it, and was inconsolable since. Dellie sat at the kitchen table, her fingers plugged firmly in her ears, her hair a tangle of wild curls that needed tied back before her swimming lesson, a pot of Trinidadian curry bubbling on the hob, the bitter smell of scorched metal and burnt food filling the kitchen.

“When will he stop crying?” Dellie huffed from the table, her face furrowed into a pout. “He’s too _loud._ ”

“In a moment, angel,” Bash soothed, rubbing comforting circles onto Elijah’s back. “He’s very sad about his toy.”

“I wish he wasn’t,” she grumbled, lifting a crayon scattered on the table before her and scrawling across the image of a juggling clown printed in the colouring book that lay open before her, her chin propped on her hand as though she bore the weight of the world on her shoulders. Bash smiled at her serious expression. She was so like her mother in many ways; bright and funny with an inability to suffer nonsense.

Mary had been ill all week, an aching pain in her side and lower abdomen, but she had suffered it, smiling brightly, playing with her children, joking with her brother in law. It was only in the privacy of their room, when they were alone, did she allow herself to flinch with each movement.

“Why don’t you let Gilbert take a look?” he had prompted, drawing her into a hug, holding her close to his chest as he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “He might be able to throw some light on it.”

“No,” she insisted. “It’s nothing, just a little pain.”

But she had awoken that morning with severe nausea, Gilbert insisting she allowed him to feel for any swelling or pressure under her skin. She swatted his hands away, insisting it was a stomach bug.

“Fine,” Gilbert stated, shaking his head. “But rest today, alright?”

The two men had gone about their daily routine, getting the children dressed for the day, Gilbert coaxing Elijah into allowing him to brush his teeth, Bash preparing lunch, carrying a tray up to Mary to find her asleep. He dropped a kiss to her forehead, smoothing her hair from her face as he watched her. She looked drawn, her skin pale and yellowed. He hoped whatever it was passed soon. He hated to see her like this; weak and tired when she was always so joyful and exuberant.

He could hear footsteps on the stairs, a light, hasty step that he knew was Gilbert, striding down the hall and into the kitchen.

“What’s going on in here?” he asked, stilling in the doorway to take in the scene before him, Dellie doodling sulkily, dressed in her swimming costume, Bash and Elijah bouncing up and down the length of the kitchen, the dinner singed to the bottom of the pot.

“ _The Oscars,_ ” Bash quipped sarcastically. “What do you think, Blythe?”

Gilbert chuckled, pacing across the kitchen, throwing open the windows to allow fresh air into the room, turning the glaring, red ring off and plunging the pot under the cool tap, the mixture hissing aggressively as the cold water mingled with the burnt remnants of curry.

“Well, it’s good to see you have everything under control,” he chuckled, crossing his arms and quirking an eyebrow at Bash. “Amateur.”

“Hey, if you think you’re so great, why don’t you try your hand at pigtails,” Bash joked, jerking his head towards Dellie. Gilbert lifted a comb, smoothing Dellie’s hair through his hands nervously. He hadn’t done this before but it couldn’t have been that hard. If he could stitch up a wound, he could put a little girl’s hair in pigtails.

“Who was on the phone?” Bash asked, settling on a chair and cuddling Elijah close as his sobs quietened.

“Moody,” Gilbert answered, rolling his eyes. Moody had called him an hour before and Gilbert had listened patiently as he explained how stressed Ruby was about work and the wedding. How she was really worried about Anne and they were wondering if he would be able to help.

“Why me?” he asked, chewing nervously as his lip as Moody sighed.

“Look, it seems important to Ruby that she has _somebody_ but Anne refused to let her ask Charlie. I just thought, because you had nothing else on, that maybe you could be of some help,” Moody reasoned. “You have a free summer and she’s not _that_ bad really. She’s actually pretty funny.”

Gilbert pondered on this. Anne Shirley-Cuthbert had never been _funny_ to him. She had barely been kind, but he knew she was capable of both; he had seen it in her when she spoke to others, a smile on her face, a sweetness to her voice, a teasing sense of humour. He wasn’t sure what he had done to offend her the previous weekend. It seemed he had come upon her with a smile and she had read it the wrong way, twisting his words to start a fight. And he shouldn’t have expected anything different, but since that sunny afternoon, he found her running circles in his head once more. They had fallen into their old routine, a game that only they knew the rules to, Anne drawing him in like a matador waving a red flag, him following blindly, rising at her efforts to start a fight. But what worried him most was the magnetism she had. How after all this time, he still found himself drawn to her; two north poles drawing together when they should have repelled.

He released his lip from between his teeth, his shoulders falling resignedly. “What does she need help with?”

“She’s looking for the guy that wrote that letter.”

Gilbert felt his jaw go slack, the words reverberating around his head. She was looking for the guy that wrote the letter. She was looking for _him._ He felt himself grow cold, his stomach drop. He _knew_ it, he had felt it all those years ago; that this letter would come back to haunt him. He knew he shouldn’t have written it at the time, but Billy had forced his hand, placing the pen between his fingers and forcing him to begin. He could even remember what he had said, mumbling, “What should I write?”

“Make it sound believable,” Billy had coaxed. “ _To Anne…_ No! _Dear Anne_. That sounds better.”

 _Dear Anne;_ that was all the prompting Gilbert had needed. The rest had poured from him easily, his heart hammering rapidly as he scrawled the words out, breathless as he thought of her; how her hair glowed. The sweetness of her smile and how desperate he was for her to bestow one upon him; a true, genuine smile, just for him. How he _knew,_ from the very moment he saw her, that she was someone he wanted to be around; that he would orbit around her like the planets around the sun. She pushed and she derided and he clung on; some masochistic desire to be close to her, the sharpness of her tongue better than nothing at all.

He felt his breath catch in his throat as she unfolded that letter and she looked at him; directly at him, her eyes locked to his as though she had _known_ it had been him when she couldn’t have. He knew she couldn’t have; nor would she have wanted it to be him. He eyed her carefully, his eyes roaming over her face as she read her letter, registering each glimmer to her eyes or whisper of a smile, pleased that he had charmed them from her, teased each emotion from her like a string of handkerchiefs from the cuff of a magician. But it all tumbled down like a house of cards, Josie declaring the letter to be a joke and Anne becoming defensive; grabbing at his wrist and demanding answers. And what was he to do? Tell the truth? That would have made the situation worse than it already was, any semblance of civility dashed away by the slight. So he lied; or not a lie, he supposed, more of a stretch of the truth. He _hadn’t_ put the letter in the time capsule and he _was_ just as shocked that it was in there, rising from the ground like some toxic ex he couldn’t get over.

“I don’t think I can help with that, Moody.” He brushed his hair back from his face, inhaling sharply as his eyes screwed shut. “I – I wrote it.”

Moody was silent, holding his breath before he let it out in a sharp whistle. “You’re kidding, right?” he asked eventually, punctuating the silence.

“Uhm, no,” Gilbert stammered. “I’m guessing you don’t remember our last day of school? With Billy?”

Moody hummed pensively before sucking in a sharp breath. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I mean, if she’s looking for me, she’ll find me I guess. Let’s just hope she doesn’t figure it out before I go back to Toronto.” He didn’t want to be here when the penny dropped, Anne piecing all of the clues together, each piece of the puzzle leading to him. He chewed at a nail distractedly.

“…Unless,” Moody murmured thoughtfully.

“Unless what?”

“Alright, listen to me,” he reasoned. “She doesn’t know it’s you but she may find that out if she goes looking alone. _But,_ if _you_ were to help her, you could lead her away from you. You’re hiding in plain sight, she’ll never know. And if she clicks with someone along the way then great! No harm done.”

Gilbert scratched at his head meditatively, mulling Moody’s words over. It made perfect sense, to hide in plain sight. If he was helping her then she would never be suspicious of him; he would fly under the radar, undetectable and unexposed. And when the summer ended, he would go home; back to Toronto and to Winnie and she would be happy that she had tried, resigning herself to it being an unsolvable mystery. He nodded decisively. If it was important to Ruby, if it would alleviate any of the stress, then he would do it.

“Fine,” he groaned. “I’ll do it. But I don’t know how you’re planning on getting her to talk to me.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Moody laughed. “Ruby has that all planned out.”

Gilbert sighed, fastening a bobble into Dellie’s hair, a blue butterfly sewn to the elastic. It was a little lop-sided, one bunch sitting higher than the other, one pigtail smooth and taut, the other loose, but it was the best he could do.

“You look troubled, Blythe,” Bash observed, tugging a pair of soft green trousers covered in yellow dinosaurs up over Elijah’s legs and pressing a kiss to his head before propping him back on his feet, where he scuttled off to play. “Anything on your mind?”

Gilbert laughed. What wasn’t on his mind? He was worried about his future and the next move he should make. He was worried about Winnie and whether he was ready to propose; the thought pressing like an uncomfortable weight to his stomach. It was just jitters, he reasoned with a light shake of his head. Everyone was anxious before they proposed, weren’t they? It was _normal_ to feel terrified at the thought of getting married, of racing a little too fast. He had come home thinking it would be an oasis; a sweet escape from the suffocating hoi-polloi of his life in Toronto, and yet found himself weighed heavier, more strains bore on his back. He was concerned about Mary. She smiled and laughed and joked as usual, but she her skin was sickly, her face flinching in pain, each movement slow and deliberate as though she was protecting herself. And then there was Anne. _Anne;_ who had occupied his thoughts the moment he rested his eyes on her again, the same long red braids, the same daisy print dungarees, the same visceral twist to his stomach that he always experienced when he was near her. He was surprised to feel it. It had been so long he thought his body may have forgotten how she affected him. It was odd, he mused, how hatred could feel so instinctual; how easily it could be misread as a crush; the same drop to his stomach, his heart beating wildly, his blood pumping furiously, causing a flush to rise to the surface of his skin. He had felt like a schoolboy again, racing home and falling into bed, reflecting on each glance, each word; wishing he had said something different. Something funnier or cleverer that would have softened her resolve; drawing a smile to her lips or melting the frostiness in her eyes.

He laughed lightly, dragging the bobble from Dellie’s hair and trying again, his palms smoothing her curls against her crown. “It’s nothing really,” he mumbled as he tied her hair, fastening a second curly little bunch to her head. “There you are, Dellie. Perfect!”

He grinned triumphantly as he sat beside her, propping his chin on his hand. “It’s just,” he continued, “there was this girl back in school. Anne. Do you remember her?”

“Marilla Cuthbert’s girl,” Bash confirmed with a nod. “You had a crush on her, right?”

“I _did not_ have a crush,” Gilbert cried, his cheeks flaming red. Bash chuckled, leaning onto his elbows.

“You see, that’s what someone who _did_ have a crush would react like, Blythe,” he teased. “Deny at all costs.”

Gilbert paused. There was a time that he had thought it _might_ have been a crush, what he felt for Anne, but it didn’t make sense. It wasn’t like he had tickling butterflies in his stomach when he saw her. It was fire; a blazing inferno. Only something as strong as hatred could be the cause of such a strong reaction. But then, he wasn’t sure he hated her either; if that was the right word he would have used to describe his feelings towards Anne.

“It wasn’t a crush,” he insisted, his face splitting into a smile at his brother’s goofy grin. “I didn’t like her. I still don’t.”

Bash leant back in his chair. “Then why are we talking about her?”

“I wrote something to her,” Gilbert admitted bashfully. “A letter.”

“A love letter?”

“It _wasn’t_ a love letter.” He shook his head with a smirk. “It was meant to be a joke but she’s found it again. After all this time. And she’s looking for the person who wrote it.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“Well, I’m helping her find him.”

Bash’s eyebrows shot upwards. “But you’re looking for you.”

“I know.” Gilbert grimaced, his hands threading together before him. Bash watched him, a crease between his brow, his lips set into a tight line, his jaw clenched tightly. Gilbert was a man now, but there was so much of him that was still a boy to Bash. He looked different; a shiny veneer masking the small-town boy underneath; his hair pushed back from his face instead of the unruly curls that lay against his forehead, dark jeans instead of his worn-in Levi’s, a look of maturity about him, his shoulders broader, but he was still Bash’s little brother and he could read him like an open book. He could see each line of worry etched on his face and around the corners of his mouth. He could tell his smile was forced when Mary teased him about Winifred, a look of strangled fear flash across his eyes. The happy-go-lucky boy had hardened under the city lights, but Bash knew he was still there.

“Hey,” Bash laughed. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll find yourself.”

Gilbert stilled, his brow knitted as his brother got to his feet, pulling a takeaway menu from an upper cabinet before leading his daughter from the room.

“Order something in, will you?” he asked as he led Dellie up the stairs.

“Sure,” Gilbert croaked, Bash’s words still echoing in his head. _“Maybe you’ll find yourself.”_ Was he lost? Did he need to be found? He hadn’t thought so. He was happy with his life. Yes, sometimes he wished for _more_ but that was normal. Everyone wanted more but Gilbert didn’t want to keep fighting for it. He was accepting of what he had been dealt. Sure, it wasn’t a royal flush but it was a straight and, for some, that was still a winning hand.

**********

Gilbert smiled at the plump, middle-aged waitress as she shown him to the table Moody had booked, settling into the quirky yellow chairs as she placed a menu before him, his fingers drumming against the tabletop.

“You seem nervous,” she observed and she nodded at the seat opposite him, still unoccupied. “First date?”

He laughed, nodding slightly. “Yeah, something like that,” he admitted.

“Well, she’d be a fool to not want a strapping lad like yourself,” she beamed, wiping a damp cloth over his table. “Best of luck.”

He watched her bustle towards the back of the bistro towards the counter. Gilbert scanned the restaurant. He had never been here before, the little bistro opening in Avonlea while he was still in Toronto. It was a trendy place, an old brass till in the counter, the chairs painted varying pastel shades in matte paint, old jam jars dotted on tables containing sprigs of Queen Anne’s Lace and blue-bells, little yellow flowers with delicate heads peeking through the blooms. He tugged at his t-shirt, ran a palm across his face, tapped his fingers against the glass of water the waitress had brought him while he waited. He wasn’t so sure why he was nervous. It was only Anne. But maybe that was precisely why, he thought. It was Anne. Him and Anne. Alone. That _never_ happened and he wasn’t quite sure what to expect from their meeting.

He checked his watch, glancing behind him to the window, searching for a flash of red hair or pale skin, any sign that she had arrived. She was already a few minutes late, he noted, running his finger along the neck of his t-shirt. He hoped she wouldn’t stand him up, especially after the waitress had taken a special interest in him, smiling at him above the packed tables and waiting staff zipping to and fro between customers and the kitchen. He checked his watch again, glancing back towards the window to see her cycle down the lane, sitting proudly on a mint-green step-through bicycle with wide handlebars and a basket attached to the front. He felt his mouth quirk into a smile as he watched her, the breeze flowing through her hair, loose tendrils dancing behind her, the sun dappling across her skin, a pretty green tea dress piped in gingham exposing her freckled limbs and chest. She stopped outside, leaning her bike against the window and raking her fingers through her hair, Gilbert unnoticed inside.

His eyes followed her, skipping past the window and pushing through the door to the bistro, a tingling bell announcing her arrival. He straightened in his seat as he watched her chat to the waitress, a bright smile on her face that fell suddenly as the waitress pointed him out in the crowd, Anne’s eyes scanning across the table before they rested on him, her brow furrowing in confusion. He felt his face form a tight smile, raising a hand to wave at her and automatically regretting it. He felt so foolish and he was sure, judging by the tension in his jaw, that he probably looked a little crazed. How did she always have this effect on him; causing him to question each of his movements. She followed the waitress slowly as she led her to their table and Gilbert stood awkwardly, his thighs knocking the table, the water glass on top sloshing clear liquid over the rim, pooling on the table.

“I was just saying there must have been a mistake,” the waitress chortled, wiping the spill as Anne and Gilbert faced each other. “Your young lady was expecting a table of three but our booking said a table for two. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you two have been set up.” She laughed heartily as she left and Gilbert gestured to the seat opposite him.

“Aren’t you going to sit down?” he asked her.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what’s going on?” She held her lips pursed and her shoulders squared, a tension to them that he could tell meant she was just as uncomfortable with the arrangement as he was but at least he had a few hours to prepare, Moody having called him earlier in the day to inform him that Ruby had booked a table in a pretty little bistro for them to meet at and that Anne had agreed to be there. He didn’t realise, of course, that she would have been lured there with a false promise of meeting someone else. He chuckled breathily, picturing Ruby Gillis, sweet little Ruby Gillis who used to trail after him in school like a puppy dog, being the mastermind behind this plot. She was devious, a sneaky side to her that she hid well; a smiling assassin. He felt his respect for her grow.

“You weren’t expecting me?” he questioned, despite already knowing the answer.

“Not unless you’ve changed your name to Ruby or Diana,” she quipped. “What are you doing here?”

“Look, why don’t you just sit down and we can talk.” She stared at him, a questioning gaze in her eyes but didn’t move, rooted to her spot on the stripped floorboards, her hands wrapped around the strap of her bag. “Anne. Sit down,” he ordered.

“You’re a little bossy,” she huffed, stepping closer to the table and pulling out her chair, Gilbert sinking back into his as she sat opposite him, dropping her bag to the floor. He laughed mirthlessly, quirking an eyebrow at her.

“And you’re acting like a brat.”

“A brat?” she cried, her eyes rounding and her cheeks flushing under his teasing gaze. She leant back in her chair crossing her arms over her chest.

“Yes.” He grinned towards her over the table. “You’re acting bratty.”

Anne stared at him, unsure of how to advance the conversation and confused to why he was even there. She was supposed to have been meeting Diana and Ruby for brunch, Ruby pleading when she told her she wanted to write that morning, having had an idea for an article that she wished to send to Muriel Stacy at _The Charlottetown Chronicl_ e in the hope that she may have changed her mind about giving Anne a position on her editorial team, Anne having had a difficult afternoon with Ted the previous day that reignited her need to escape the _Gazette’s_ miniscule office and tempestuous editor.

She sighed, feigning boredom as she scrutinized her nails. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here or not?” she asked coolly, leaning into her seat and folding her arms. Gilbert surveyed her, her slim freckled arms crossing over her chest as her head tilted back slightly, her chin lifting as she eyed him. He felt himself mimic her pose, leaning back against the wood himself, crossing his own arms.

“I was told you needed help,” he admitted.

“And you agreed to help me? How chivalrous,” she drawled sarcastically.

“Are you always so charming or do you just save that for me?”

She snorted a laugh, rolling her eyes as she leant across the table, her hands crossing at the palms. He swallowed back, fighting the urge to follow her once more, compelled to lean into her. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she jibed with a mirthless laugh but her face flickered with a smile. “I’m a ray of sunshine.” She lifted her menu, dropping her gaze from him as he lifted his own menu.

“Yes, but too many of _them_ can be cancerous,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“What?” he asked, his eyes finding hers, rounded in mock innocence and she laughed, a genuine burst of laughter spilling from her lips, the sound like music to Gilbert’s ears, and he found himself laughing too.

“Did you just insinuate I was _cancerous_?”

“I might have done,” he shrugged, a dopey smile to his face as she glanced back at her menu. He tore his eyes from her, a small smile still playing on his face as he read the drinks selection. She had just laughed. He had just made her _laugh._ He wasn’t sure _why_ , exactly, but he felt proud, like he had just won a Nobel Prize, his trophy a gurgle of laughter from Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.

The waitress approached them again, taking their orders, Anne asking for a coffee and a slice of the sumptuous carrot cake that was displayed under gleaming glass of the counter, Gilbert requesting the same with a smile that he realised was because Anne had obviously planned to stay.

“So,” Anne began, as their coffees arrived, lifting the steaming cup to her lips and sipping. Gilbert smiled as she placed the cup back to the table, a streak of the froth from the top of her latte smearing on her upper lip. Gilbert laughed gently. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

“I was told to come,” he explained, leaning forward and drawing his own cup to his lips. “Moody and Ruby told me you needed some help and Ruby was too busy to help you herself. I’m free,” he leant back, throwing his hands outwards, “so I offered.”

“Which is all well and good, except for the fact that you don’t like me.”

She watched as he shrugged, lifting a forkful of cake to his mouth and chewing pensively. “You’re right,” he concluded. “I don’t. But I _do_ like Ruby. I think we have that in common. And I’ll put up with _you_ if it means that it alleviates the stress for her a little.”

He smiled cheekily but Anne could see he was nervous, she could feel his leg bounce beneath the table, the brush of friction of his jeans against her knee sending a little jolt through her unexpectedly. Jesus, it had been a long time since she had male company, she mused, if she felt herself getting a little hot from being in such close proximity to _Gilbert._

Gilbert leant towards her. “And besides,” he continued. “I want to know who wrote your letter.” He tensed as he spoke of the letter. He had lay awake the night before, pondering on what would happen if someone gave him away; if Billy or Cole remembered what had happened that day and blew his cover. He rolled over, shooting a hasty text to Moody detailing his concerns, Moody texting back, ‘ _I forgot. They will too’_ and a gif of an elderly lady scratching her head. Gilbert had stared at the message. It wasn’t difficult for Moody to forget things. He had been voted ‘Most Likely to Forget Your Name’ in their school yearbook, winning by a majority. He just hoped the others would have no recollection of that day too.

“And why is it any of your business?” Anne quipped, drawing Gilbert from his daydream of coming face to face with Billy Andrews again, a wolfish smile to his face as he told Anne exactly who had written her letter and _why_. Gilbert sighed, running his hand down his face.

“Look, if we’re going to be a team in this you have to stop fighting me. I _want_ to help. These guys were my friends once, remember? I have inside knowledge.” He tapped at his temple with his index finger, a smirk to his face.

Anne groaned. “Fine,” she snapped. “But we’re setting rules.”

“Rules?” Gilbert parroted. It wasn’t a business deal, just a silly quest to track down different figures from their past, hoping that he would blend into the background, an inconspicuous figure that wouldn’t draw any recognition as Anne charmed her way into their hearts.

“R-U-L-E-S. Rules,” she stated patronisingly. “Or haven you forgotten that one?”

He smirked, reminiscing on their most common type of battle; an innocent academic challenge being bastardised into a form of warfare, Anne and Gilbert throwing insults at each other like atomic bombs, the other deflecting with a hasty spelling before tossing another insult back. He licked his lips. “I remember.”

“Good.” Her voice was clipped and tight, but he saw a phantom of a smile tug at her mouth, imagining she was remembering those days in a stuffy classroom too, Anne ruminating on which word she would select before declaring it with a haughty upturn of her nose. “Right, rule number one: this,” she gestured between them with a finger, “is for Moody and Ruby, so there will be _no_ fighting in front of them. I don’t want them worried.”

“I agree.”

“Good. Rule number two…”

“Anne, come on,” he laughed. “This is _stupid._ I’m going to help, isn’t that enough? It’s not a rom-com. We don’t need to set rules that we’ll eventually break. I’m not going to _fall in love with you_ if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She felt her face furrow. Was he telling _jokes_ now, she wondered, eyeing him over the rim of her mug, a glint to his eye as he spoke. “I wasn’t.”

“Right,” he choked. It was a silly joke to have made, he realised. There was nothing about her that was like him; why did he think their sense of humour would be similar? “Okay, should we shake on this then?”

“Sure,” she reached her hand across the table for him to take but he hesitated, drawing his hand from hers as he smiled.

“How about a word for old times sake?”

“What did you have in mind?” she asked, her eyebrow raised curiously, a serious expression to her face.

“How about ‘truce’?” he held his hand out to her as her mouth curved into a small smile.

“T-R-U-C-E.”

“Well done.” Anne reached out to take his hand, her fingers brushing his skin gently before she snapped her hand away.

“One last rule,” she stipulated, leaning towards him with a smirk to her face, her eyes narrowing at him.

“And what’s that?” he queried, feeling pinned to his seat by her piercing gaze.

Her mouth rounded. “No. More. ‘Carrots’.”

He laughed heartily, taking her hand in his, her skin warm beneath his palm. “If you insist,” he grinned, tugging her hand closer to him so she was forced to lean in, their faces so close he could count the freckles dotted across her nose, “Red.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here is a little disclaimer:
> 
> At the start of this chapter I said it's taking me longer to hit my stride. Truth be told, I've been plagued with a ~lot~ of self doubt in regards to this story and my writing ability being able to do it justice but I am planning on seeing it through.
> 
> Thank you all for your kind comments and kudos left. They have really bolstered me while I've taken my little wobble.
> 
> I hope you continue to enjoy this little shirbert tale. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, as usual!
> 
> Love, Becky x


	4. Chapter Three: ‘I would nestle close to your warm heart…Is there any room there for me, or shall I wander away all homeless and alone?’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne and Gilbert begin their quest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies!
> 
> Another late update for you all because of crippling writers block, but unfortunately this will be the norm as I'm returning back to work this week. I'm going to try to update every fortnight and if any updates come earlier then it will be a bonus.
> 
> Thank you for all the kind comments and kudos left on the previous chapter. I appreciate each and every one.
> 
> This chapter title is from a letter written by Emily Dickinson to Susan Gilbert.
> 
> Enjoy x

Five days had passed since Anne and Gilbert had become unlikely allies, shaking hands across the little corner table they occupied in the bistro, Anne’s heart racing unexpectedly as Gilbert drew her towards him, so close she could see the flecks of moss green in his eyes and the smattering of faint freckles across his nose, his breath hot on her skin, causing her heart to race in her chest. They hadn’t parted as friends, but were personable, Gilbert insisting to pay their bill and Anne politely arguing the contrary until she eventually relinquished. She was a little strapped for cash anyway, her miserly wages struggling to stretch to the end of the month, but she wouldn’t let him know that.

“You know what, Red? I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship,” he teased as he paid, chuckling as Anne crossed her arms across her chest and rolled her eyes.

“You’d be so lucky,” she grumbled, Gilbert holding the door open for her to pass him with a flourish of his arm. They stopped on the pavement outside, Gilbert waiting as Anne fumbled with the lock of her bicycle. He rubbed at his jaw self-consciously, sucking in a deep breath and exhaling it in a sharp puff.

“So, we’re doing this then,” he stated, although Anne felt it was more as a reassurance to himself than directed at her, his brow furrowed as though he was questioning his actions. She nodded sharply.

“We are.”

“Right.” He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, his hand brushing the nape of his neck. “And you have my number?”

“I do.”

“Good. Just text me when you’re ready to get started.” Anne nodded briefly as Gilbert’s hazel eyes found hers, his hands burrowing into the pockets of his jeans. Anne felt herself shrink under his gaze, a shiver tremble down her spine and prickle over her skin. She tore her eyes from him, her hands finding the handlebars of her bike.

“I have to go,” she blurted, Gilbert’s skin flushing as he was awoken from the trance he had fallen into, staring into Anne’s eyes and realising they were the exact same shade of blue as the water that stretched from the cliffs. Ocean blue; eyes with hidden depths to them.

“Oh, sure.” He shrugged, watching as Anne turned from him and pushed her bike down the path, glancing backwards at him briefly, his eyes still trained on her and his hand raised in the semblance of a wave.

Gilbert had spent the week in a state of nervous agitation. He had been anxious to begin their search, fearful that Anne would find him out, uncertain of what damage that knowledge may cause. Gilbert had never been a good liar, his face too open, each nuance betraying him; a flicker of his brow or a quirk of his mouth sending involuntary signals to her that he thought she may be able to read like an open book; her pale, thin fingers running along the index, reading each chapter with ease, a story unfolding before her with an ending that Gilbert imagined would leave her disappointed. He knew she had lofty ideas of some handsome, poetical soul pining for her, penning her a letter with tears on his lashes and his heart in his throat. That wasn’t Gilbert; his nose too sharp and his jaw too severe to ever think himself handsome, his mind too strategic; analysing every move he was going to make, weighing up the pros and cons and coming to a rational conclusion. There was nothing about him poetical or romantic or instinctive. He never made rash decisions, living his life with wild abandon. Every step was mediated; was this right for him? Was it sensible? And he had certainly never _pined_ for Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.

Yet as Sunday turned into Monday and Monday transformed into Tuesday, Gilbert felt the knot in his stomach twist more severely, each passing day bringing no news from Anne. He felt like his body had been once again inhabited by his teenaged self, thoughts of Anne running circles in his head, before finally, he was given some reprieve on Wednesday evening, his phone pinging with a message from her asking him if it would be possible to meet when she finished work the next day. Gilbert had agreed eagerly, offering his home as the venue for their first meeting on account of Mary still being unwell, Gilbert available to assist Bash if he needed an extra pair of hands to wrestle Elijah into his pyjamas or to tie Dellie’s hair before her swimming lessons, but as the day commenced, the time of Anne’s arrival nearing with each minute that passed, Gilbert felt himself become anxious once more.

He checked his watch. He wasn’t sure when to expect Anne but knew the last train from Charlottetown disembarked in Avonlea at six thirty, giving him just over two hours to ready the house before she arrived. He hoovered hastily, grabbing coats and miniature shoes that had been strewn around the house as he moved through each room, stuffing them into the cupboard under the stairs and shoving the door closed with a hard push. He collected an armful of coloured building blocks, dropping them into the tiger printed toy chest in the lounge and neatening the stack of newspapers Bash had strewn on the kitchen counter, searching for a particular article on the prevention of fire blight in apple trees. He rummaged through the cabinets for the jar of good coffee Mary kept for guests, drawing it from the pantry before changing his mind and replacing it. Anne seemed more like a tea drinker to him anyway and, thanks to Mary and her love of herbal teas, he was satisfied they had a pleasing selection; apple and elderflower, peppermint, chamomile, green tea with lemon and a half empty box of Earl Grey. He searched through an overhead cabinet, drawing the coffee stained mugs from the front, pushing past the promotional mugs and the cups with _World’s Best Dad_ printed on the side to find the pretty china cups they rarely used hidden at the back, taking two of them before replacing the others as Bash padded down the hallway from the lounge where he had been watching _Wreck-It Ralph_ with Mary, Dellie and Elijah in the living room, his children curled into his wife’s side.

“Oh, I didn’t realise we were having the queen for tea,” he quipped as Gilbert shut the cabinet door, the two hand-painted cups on the counter before him.

“Anne’s coming around,” he admitted with a shrug.

“And the other mugs aren’t good enough for her, eh? Queen Anne.” Bash chuckled lightly at the stricken look on his brother’s face.

“Please do _not_ call her that when she arrives,” he pleaded, his eyebrows shooting upwards comically. “In fact, if you could make yourself scarce…”

“Leave?” Bash laughed heartily. “Leave my own home so you can woo some girl?”

“I’m not trying to _woo_ her,” Gilbert exclaimed. “I’m trying to _help_ her, remember? And might I remind you of my _girlfriend._ ”

“You’re trying to _trick_ her, Blythe. There’s no helping about it.” Gilbert shook his head as Bash fixed him with a teasing gaze. “And since we’re yet to meet the famous Winnie, I’m starting to think she’s a figment of your imagination.”

“She’s _not_ a figment of my imagination,” Gilbert laughed. “She’s busy. She has work.”

“Can’t she take pictures here?” Bash joked, Gilbert rolling his eyes as his brother struck a pose, one hand on his hip, the other behind his head.

“She does more than take pictures,” Gilbert argued lightly. “She, you know – she goes to events and things too.”

“Blythe, the girl is made of money. She could have taken a month off going to _events_ but she sent you here on your own.”

Bash’s brows curved as he looked pointedly at him, Gilbert shrinking under his gaze. He knew that Bash and Mary were hurt that they hadn’t yet met Winnie, even after the two years they had spent together. Their schedules often clashed, Gilbert arriving home after a long day trekking the wards of his placement hospital, drawing blood samples and checking medical charts under the watchful gaze of his supervisor, dropping his backpack by the door as Winnie clattered up the hallway in her _Louboutin_ stilettos, pressing a red lipsticked kiss to his cheek as she passed him on her way out, calling a “See you in the morning” over her shoulder as the door closed, leaving Gilbert alone in their large, lonely apartment, the television his only company until he became bored of _Friends_ reruns and the same stale jokes, eventually bringing his old _Back to the Future_ mug filled with tea to the fire escape, where he watched the sun set over the Toronto skyline, wondering what his family were doing at that moment. It was a strange existence, him and Winnie like passing ships, acknowledging the other but never having time to stop, be still, speak and listen. They were like a middle-aged couple together a lifetime; all the soft, intimate moments between them lost in the chaotic whirlwind of their lives. But he loved his work and he knew Winnie loved hers. They had to make sacrifices to be happy, their time together a casualty to the hustle and bustle of press events and long days in the library. Yes, sometimes Gilbert wished they were more affectionate with each other; he sometimes felt starved of her thoughts and her touch, but he would always support her in any decision she made and he hoped she would do the same for him.

Bash watched as Gilbert chewed a nail pensively, a furrow to his brow. He knew that Gilbert sacrificed a lot to be with Winnie. His brother was clever and caring; the sort of man who would strive to make his partner happy, yet he felt she toyed with him. He was a little fish in a big city and Bash knew he had always struggled to make friends. He had Winnie and her family in Toronto. He was bound to them through his desire to not be by himself, yet he spent all his evenings alone or at the Rose’s house and when he had asked her to come home with him and meet his family, it was impossible for her to alter her schedule. Bash wanted more for Gilbert. He knew deep down Gilbert longed for a relationship like the one he shared with his wife; supportive and affectionate but fun. Oh, so fun. Gilbert lacked a lot in his relationship with Winnie. He lacked support and spontaneity. He lacked _love._

“Look, I’m sorry,” Bash apologised, clapping Gilbert on the shoulder. “You know Mary is desperate for some more female company around here though.” Gilbert rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips as Bash grinned at him.

“Well she won’t have to wait much longer. You know she’s…”

A jaunty knock at the door interrupted him, a look of excited glee on Bash’s face as he watched Gilbert’s eyes go wide.

“I wasn’t expecting her for another hour at least,” he whispered across the kitchen, glancing at the door. “What do I do?”

“Answer it,” Bash chuckled. “Unless you want me to.”

Bash went to step towards the door, Gilbert springing forward to push him back. “You have to go,” he rushed.

“I’m making tea.” Bash lifted the kettle, shaking it lightly with a beaming smile and filling it with water from the tap as Gilbert tugged at his shirt, neatened his hair, pushing his curls back from his face, and opened the door.

“Red,” he greeted cheerfully. “I wasn’t expecting you for a while yet. What train did you get in on?”

Anne paled, her eyes wide and her lips rounding momentarily before she shut them again. She had forgotten she had lied to him about working in Charlottetown. She could have kicked herself. It was _much_ too early to have arrived into Avonlea by train. “Oh, uhm.” She paused a moment, her mind whirling as she tried to think of a plausible excuse to why she was here. “I work from home,” she rushed, satisfied by his light nod that he had accepted her excuse. “It suits Marilla and I _much_ better.” She nodded determinedly, attempting to reinforce the lie with her confidence.

“Cool. That’s, uhm…” He smiled gently as his hand brushed at his neck, Anne’s eyes meeting his expectantly. A cough from the kitchen caused him to stir, his head snapping from Anne and towards Bash who was shaking his head with a smirk.

“Ask her in,” he whispered and Gilbert’s eyes widened, his head jerking back to Anne.

“Sorry, I – Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you.” Anne stepped over the threshold, placing the heavy bag she carried onto the settle bed that stood inside the doorway, glancing around the kitchen, taking in the dark wooden cabinets and the cream marble topped counters, the exposed floorboards and beams on the ceiling making the room appear quaint and homely. She smiled warmly as her eyes rested on Bash. “Hello.”

“Queen Anne,” Bash smiled, reaching out his hand to take her’s and ignoring Gilbert’s glaring gaze. Anne laughed, taking her hand in his and shaking it.

“Just Anne is fine,” she chuckled. “I don’t usually go by ‘queen’ when I’m outside of the palace. It makes the commoners uncomfortable.”

Bash laughed heartily. “I like this one, Blythe,” he teased, turning to Gilbert with a bright grin on his face. “I can see why you had such a crush on her.”

“Bash!” Gilbert hollered, his face turning a stark white as Anne’s eyes widened and rounded on him, a merry smile on her face.

“He _did_ , did he?” Anne taunted, laughing lightly as Gilbert swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“I – uhm,” he began before Bash interrupted him.

“I’m kidding, Blythe. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” He rolled his eyes at Anne, grinning as he turned back to the counter, lifting the brewing teapot from the stove top. “Cup of tea?”

“Yes, please,” Anne answered as she loitered by the table.

“You can sit down,” Gilbert offered, pulling a chair from below the table for her. She accepted the seat gratefully, watching quietly as the two men wandered around the kitchen, Bash filling cups and pulling milk from the fridge, Gilbert taking sugar from the pantry, filling a plate with ginger nut biscuits and chocolate digestives, his brother joking lightly with him, Gilbert chuckling in response. It was strange to Anne to see Gilbert like this. There was a whole other side to him she had never seen. All she knew about him was his narrowed eyes and teasing tone; the embarrassment he inflicted when he tugged her hair and every time he won a fought of theirs afterwards, but here he was in his natural habitat; a domestic Gilbert, stirring tea in his kitchen, placing coasters on the table so as to not mark the varnished wood, the fall guy for his brother’s jokes. It made him seem more human.

“Here you are.” He placed a pretty mug covered in hand-painted purple wisteria before her. “Do you take sugar?”

“No, thank you. I’m sweet enough.”

A quick snort of laughter burst from him and Anne found herself smiling as well, blowing lightly on her tea as she took in the pictures on the wall; photographs of a pretty little girl with wild curls poking her tongue out and a baby boy with a gummy smile. images of happy family memories, Bash and his wife on their wedding day, Gilbert laughing as he spun his niece under his arm, an image of the family together at Christmas, donning terrible festive knits and colourful cracker crowns. There was one image that looked out of place amongst all the candid photographs displayed; Gilbert in his black graduation robes, a pretty blonde by his side, her hand splayed possessively against his chest as she tilted her head towards the camera, a vixen-like look on her face, her rouged lips pursed. It looked forced, Gilbert’s hand around her waist, a tight smile to his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked like a waxwork; a Madam Tussaud’s exhibition with no real emotion in his expression.

A soft tread was audible from the hallway, drawing nearer to the kitchen door and Anne tore her eyes from the photograph to see a woman enter, a wide smile on her face as she spotted Anne.

“Oh, hello,” she grinned, glancing at Gilbert. “I didn’t realise we were expecting company yet.” She turned back to Anne, her pretty features melting into a smile that felt like a warm hug. “I’m Mary. You must be Anne.”

“I am,” Anne answered. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“And you. I hope these men are looking after you,” she said as she bustled towards the counter. “Better than me anyhow. I’ve been waiting almost twenty minutes for a cup of tea, Sebastian Lacroix.” She poked a finger into Bash’s side playfully as he dropped a kiss to her cheek.

“Ask and you shall receive, my love,” Bash replied, handing her cup to her and bowing slightly with a ceremonial flourish.

“Look at that,” she jested to Anne. “I had to come in here myself to get it. Never send a man to do something you can do yourself, Anne.”

“Oh, I know that,” Anne agreed. “Men, huh? Who needs them?”

Mary chuckled, quirking Bash’s cheek. “Well, they aren’t all bad, I suppose,” she mused with a teasing smile on her face. “Right, Mr Lacroix, will we let these young people have some peace?”

“Anything for you, my love,” Bash lulled, pressing a kiss to Mary’s temple. “It was lovely to meet you, Queen Anne.”

Anne waved awkwardly as they left the room, Bash wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at Gilbert as he closed the door, the room falling silent.

Gilbert shrugged gauchely, glancing at Anne who watched pressed her lips together into a stiff smile.

“I’m sorry about them,” he blurted in an attempt to fill the silence.

“Not at all,” Anne gushed. “They seem sweet.”

Gilbert grinned, settling at the table in the seat opposite her. “Yeah, they are.” He smiled fondly, glancing towards the door his family had just disappeared through.

“So,” Anne began, her hands tapping a rhythm onto the tabletop. “You had a crush on me, huh?”

“What?” Gilbert’s voice was strangled, his eyes rounded and a flush to his cheeks. “Not at _all,_ Red. You should know that.”

“Hmm, funny,” Anne mused, her lips pursing in an expression of faux sincerity. “That sounds like something somebody who _did_ have a crush would say. You know, overcompensating.”

“Red,” Gilbert’s voice was serious, glancing at Anne through hooded eyes, his gaze fixing on her’s, the smile slipping from her face as her heartbeat hastened in her chest. “If I _had_ had a crush on you, you would have known about it.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes.”

“Like, I don’t know, by writing a love letter?” Gilbert flustered, dropping his gaze from Anne and fidgeting with the cup before him, straightening the coaster that was slightly tilted, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

“I suppose that’s as good as saying “Let’s get down to business”, isn’t it?” He laughed awkwardly, watching as Anne nodded, getting up and lugging the heavy bag she had brought with her to the table, dropping it on the chair beside her and drawing two heavy catalogues from inside it.

“Red, what in God’s name is that?” Gilbert asked teasingly as Anne shuffled the books before her.

“They’re directories.” She scoffed at Gilbert’s blank expression. “You know, with phone numbers and addresses.”

Gilbert reached across the table, drawing the directory from Anne and snapping it shut, tossing it aside gently.

“Hey!” Anne protested as Gilbert pushed aside a pile of newspapers, revealing a small MacBook underneath.

“Let me introduce you to a new phenomenon we tend to use here in the 21st century. It’s called the internet.”

“Ha-ha,” Anne huffed sarcastically. “Some people like to use hardback copies,” Anne grumbled, straightening the papers that had slipped from the pile and lifting one, reading the front page. She lifted another, copy after copy of _The Avonlea Gazette_ stacked in the Blythe kitchen.

“You read the _Gazette?_ ” she asked, noticing her name highlighted on the front of one; “ _How to Fight Fire Blight”_ by Cordelia Walters emphasised in fluorescent yellow ink.

“Yeah, Bash is really into the agriculture section,” Gilbert answered distractedly as he booted up his laptop. He glanced at Anne, a small smile playing on her lips as she scanned her article. It was a nice feeling, thinking someone valued her words even if she didn’t. “It’s a bit of a rubbish paper but the farming articles seem pretty popular.”

Anne glanced at him, nodding as she replaced the paper. “Yeah, I’ve heard of Cordelia before.” She tapped awkwardly at her knees, scanning the room once more as Gilbert typed his passcode into his laptop, a picture of Dellie and Elijah filling his home-screen.

“So,” he glanced at Anne over the top of his monitor. “Where do we start?”

Anne sucked in a breath before pausing thoughtfully. Truthfully, she didn’t know where to start. She wasn’t sure who she was to look for first or if she even _liked_ any of the boys from school that much, but she was determined she would give each of them a try. Seven years was a long time and her feelings may have changed.

“How about a list?” she suggested with a shy shrug.

“You haven’t even made a list yet?” Gilbert questioned; his eyebrow cocked as she shook her head. “Alright. A list it is then.”

He pulled up a word document as Anne moved around the table to sit beside him, her shoulder brushing his and making him stiffen.

“Uhm, alright,” he stumbled. “Who are we looking for?”

“The boys in our class,” Anne mused, pursing her lip and furrowing her brow as she thought. “Billy Andrews. Roy Gardner, Paul Smith and Paul Langdon…Wait, not Paul Smith.”

“Why not?”

“He’s with Tillie,” Anne reasoned. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

Gilbert nodded, backspacing to delete Paul’s name from their list. “Alright, so we aren’t including Moody either?”

“Of course not,” Anne concurred, an incredulous look on her face that Gilbert would even suggest including Moody in their quest. “He’s never had eyes for anyone but Ruby.”

Gilbert nodded his agreement. “Ok, so Moody is off the list,” he stated decisively. “What about Charlie?”

Anne shook her head. “I don’t think it’s him.” She paused for a moment, imagining she was back in her high school English room, scanning the rows of seats and the students behind them, trying to remember a face she forgot. “Cole McKenzie.” Gilbert tapped the name into the word document as Anne sighed. “And…you.”

His fingers ceased typing, his head snapping towards her to find her scanning the screen. “Do – Do you want me to include myself?” he asked warily, his heart thundering uncomfortably, Anne so close to him that he was sure she could hear it.

“Not at all,” she stated, taking in his stricken expression and questioning why he looked so nervous. “I was just thinking out loud. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Blythe’,” she joked, mocking his brother’s teasing tone. Gilbert felt a huff of laughter escape from his chest, his mouth quirking into a smile.

“I guess that’s them all,” she mused, tearing her gaze from his and scanning the list once more.

“Where do you want to start?” he asked, watching as Anne’s shoulders lifted towards her ears and dropped in a shrug.

“At the beginning, I guess?” she pondered, shooting a hasty glance at Gilbert as he highlighted the first name on her list, nodding briskly.

“Billy Andrews it is then.”

**********

Billy Andrews had been surprisingly easy to find, a scroll through his Instagram account and a hasty reply from Jane Andrews informing Anne and Gilbert that Billy was living in Charlottetown and had just been appointed as the new CEO of their fathers’ company, _Andrews Incorporated,_ much to their sister Prissy’s disappointment.

“I understand why she’s disappointed,” Gilbert chuckled darkly. “He could barely do his two times tables. He must be a disaster.”

Anne smacked at Gilbert’s arm crossly, Gilbert laughing as he clutched at the spot she had struck.

“What was that for?” he asked, his voice laced with humour.

“That could be the future love-of-my-life,” she protested, before dissolving into giggles at how ridiculous that sounded. Anne had never thought of Billy like that before. He had always been taunting and a little goonish to her but she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Anne and Gilbert arranged to travel to Charlottetown the next Friday, Anne booking the day of work to be able to confront Billy when she knew he would be in-office.

The week passed quickly, Anne spending it in her cramped office, throwing herself into her work to distract herself from the thoughts that filled her head; was she doing the right thing? Could Gilbert be trusted? Was this all a foolish errand that wouldn’t have a happy ending?

Gilbert spent the week fretting too, worried about Billy blowing his cover. Billy was unpredictable, amiable one moment, sharing jokes and guffawing loudly, then turning, his words cruel and his intentions ill-meaning. Gilbert had the distinct feeling that if someone was to ruin this, it would be Billy. He just hoped he would be proven wrong.

Friday arrived, another warm July day, the sky clear and the sun warm, a fresh breeze making it more comfortable. Gilbert had spent the morning helping Bash with Dellie and Elijah, making breakfast and clearing up afterwards, Mary lying in after having a restless night, nausea preventing her from sleeping.

Bash eyed him as he silently dried the dishes. “Anne seems nice,” he mused, watching as Gilbert’s face flickered with a smile.

“I don’t know if she’s _nice_ , really, or if she’s just trying to be,” he replied with a shrug.

“Mary liked her.”

“Mary likes everyone,” Gilbert drawled, shaking his head lightly at his brother’s amused expression.

“Well, _because_ Mary liked her, she insisted I give you this.” Bash reached into an overhead cabinet by the door, fishing an old teapot from the top self that the emergency credit card and spare copies of the house keys were kept in, Bash drawing a heavy black key from inside. Gilbert stared at the key, his heart racing as he recognised what it unlocked; what it brought to life.

“Dad’s car?” he asked as he reached out for it, his fingers curling around the cool metal.

“A mustang doesn’t really fit two car seats. The poor thing has been lying in that garage neglected.” Bash shrugged as Gilbert’s face lit up with a grin. “Mary thought it would be more comfortable and a little faster than the train.”

Gilbert smiled broadly, pulling Bash into a hug. When his father had passed, they had packed up his belongings; all his clothes and mementos being stored in the attic. Gilbert had kept very little of his father around him; some photographs and a few of his vinyl records, but he had always wanted the car, Bash having drove it until his family had grown. “Thank you,” Gilbert breathed. The summer suddenly felt like it was full of possibility; freedom and a little bit of adventure that he didn’t realise he craved.

“It’s yours under one condition.” Bash smiled fondly at Gilbert. He had been in the city for so long, where everything was accessible by foot or by cab, that he was out of practice when he drove, his movements bumpy, each change of gear causing the engine to heave, leading Gilbert to drive Bash’s car into a balustrade outside the supermarket during the week. “Please, for the love of God, don’t crash it.”

“You have my word.”

Anne arrived just before eleven, waiting on the Blythe porch, Bash hovering behind her with a smile on his face as Gilbert manoeuvred the old rust-red coloured mustang from the garage, braking jerkily at the foot of the steps, Bash cackling as Gilbert’s head snapped towards Anne, a mortified flush rising to his cheeks.

“Good luck, Queen Anne,” Bash expressed, patting Anne on the shoulder. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” He paused, watching as the car lurched, Gilbert twisting the keys and yanking them sharply from the ignition. “If you get there alive,” he sighed. Anne’s eyes rounded on him, her mouth falling open, a flash of terror in her eyes.

“Just how terrible of a driver is he, Bash?” she questioned, Bash shrugging lightly, a wicked twinkle in his eye as Gilbert scrambled from the front seat and bounded up the steps.

“Right,” he clapped his hands together determinedly, “are we ready to go?” His brow furrowed as he glanced between Bash and Anne, Anne swallowing dryly before nodding her head. Gilbert nodded curtly, lifting her bag and striding back to the car as Anne followed slowly, throwing a glance over her shoulder towards Bash, a worried expression on her face.

Bash chuckled. She looked like a lamb being led to slaughter, he thought. “Don’t worry,” he called after her with a grin. “He hasn’t killed anyone…yet.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Gilbert mumbled, before raising his voice a decibel louder, glancing towards his brother as he called, “I’m just a little out of practice.”

Bash rolled his eyes, chuckling lightly as Gilbert opened the passenger door for Anne, a smile on his face as his arm flourished towards the seat. “Ladies first.”

She raised her eyebrows at him questioningly, her arms folded against her chest. “Really?”

“Anne, I’m just being…”

“An ass?” she shot, a rumble of laugher bursting from Gilbert as he clutched his hands over his heart, a wounded expression on his face.

“That one cut deep, Red,” he teased and Anne huffed annoyedly, rolling her eyes as he pushed her lightly towards the car. “Get in,” he ordered, a playful twinkle in his eye that irked Anne. _They weren’t friends_ , she thought darkly. This wasn’t banter. It was a business deal.

“Fine.” Anne threw her hands up defeatedly, pausing before she slid into the car. “But for future reference, I’m a big girl who I can tie her own shoelaces and everything. I certainly don’t need you opening doors for me.”

Gilbert nodded sharply, a look of faux sobriety on his face, his mouth pressed into a line. “Noted,” he declared, his mouth quirking into a smirk as Anne rolled her eyes agitatedly and slid into the leather covered seat but as Gilbert closed the door behind her she felt an involuntary smile tug at her lips. It was chivalrous, although she was vexed to admit it to herself, and was something she wasn’t used to; having doors opened and closed for her. Anne felt the long dormant romantic who fantasised about hands being held as she stepped down from ledges, or gently cupping her elbow as she stilled with shock, stretch slightly, flex her fingers and wiggle her toes after years of being buried beneath grief and darkness. She glanced towards Gilbert as he climbed in beside her, adjusting the rear-view mirror and twisting the key in the ignition, the car jolting forwards before stalling with a loud sputter of the engine. He flushed, shooting an embarrassed smile towards Anne.

“I’m a little rusty,” he admitted with a grimace and Anne nodded solemnly.

“That I can see.”

He snorted with a laugh, shaking his head before trying again; taking the car out of first gear and turning the key in the ignition, the car revving to life, the engine purring below the hood.

“Second time lucky,” he declared, jerkily forcing the car into first gear and moving slowly down the driveway, the indicator ticking noisily as he signalled onto the street. “I’m not even co-ordinated enough to beep the horn,” he laughed, two spots of red appearing high on his cheekbones.

“Should I be praying right now?” Anne asked lightly, pressing her hands together and glancing skywards. “Gracious heavenly father, please allow me to arrive in Charlottetown in one piece.”

“You shouldn’t worry too much,” Gilbert grinned, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “You’re travelling with a doctor.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. Although I’m struggling with what good you’ll be when you get us both run off the road.” Gilbert laughed a deep, throaty chuckle, his eyes travelling from the road to look at Anne, who stared ahead, her hands folded on her lap. She glanced towards him, the smile that was playing on her lips slipping from her face, replaced with a scowl. “Watch the road, you knucklehead!” she exclaimed and Gilbert’s eyes shot forward again.

“I was,” he countered, firing a hasty glance towards her under his lashes. It was strange to him, surreal almost, having her beside him in his father’s old car. They weren’t often alone together, always joined by friends who filled the void of deafening silence that fell between them after they fought, both simmering, shooting hostile glares at the other, or under the watchful eyes of their teachers before they were hauled into a meeting with their vice-principal, demanding that they at least _attempt_ to remain civilised when partaking in class discussions. But they never met like this, doors closed, no one around; just Anne and Gilbert and a fledgling alliance.

Anne crossed her arms tightly across her chest, staring out of the window as they drove through Avonlea, passing the Lynde’s farm and the Pye’s large house with a wrap-around porch, her mind racing for something to say, the silence between her and Gilbert awkward when they were in such close proximity, Gilbert’s hand close to her knee as he changed gears clumsily, the car jerking fitfully under them as he eased his foot off the cutch. They drove down the high street, passing Mr Boulter’s shop and the hardware store, a handful of boutiques, windows filled with displays of mannequins in dated frilled blouses and long smock dresses patterned like curtains. They passed her office, Anne’s head twisting from the window, her face neutral as she shot a hasty glance at Gilbert from the corner of her eye, hoping he didn’t register a flicker of recognition on her face that would give her away. She still didn’t know why she had lied about her job; her childish need to better him brimming to the surface, forcing her to fib about her occupation. She felt inferior compared to him. He seemed to have it all together; an exciting life in a big city, a supportive family and a happy relationship, an impressive M.D. following his name. If this was a game, he was winning and Anne was a sore loser, never able to resign without a fight.

They remained in silence as they merged onto the carriageway, the sleepy, tumbledown town buildings morphing into lush green countryside and wide, open fields, cars speeding past them, moving swiftly into different lanes, their spluttering engines contrasting with the peace of the countryside surrounding them.

“Cows,” Gilbert observed as they drove past a field filled with hefty Holstein cows, their white coats splotched with patches of black. Gilbert glanced towards Anne once more, his mouth curving into a smile when he noticed a flicker of something cross Anne’s face that he thought looked like a smile.

“Was that an attempt at conversation?” she asked, turning to him, her eyebrow quirked questioningly.

“Depends,” Gilbert replied, glancing between the rear-view and side mirror before moving into the next lane. “Did it work?”

“No.”

He laughed breathily, looking towards Anne hastily and noticing her eyes on him before training his gaze on the road before him. He swallowed nervously. It wasn’t a long drive to Charlottetown, an hour at most, but it would stretch longer if they were silent the whole time.

“Sheep.” He nodded towards a flock in a field on the opposite side of the road, the grass sparse and tufty under their hooves. Anne huffed out a breathy laugh.

“Hey, David Attenborough, we can play some music if you’re uncomfortable. There’s no need for the nature documentary,” she jeered, Gilbert letting out a strangled laugh at her apt observation. He was uncomfortable, both of them trapped together with nothing to say, Gilbert afraid of putting his foot in his mouth like he always did, managing to offend Anne unintentionally, everything he said being interpreted the wrong way.

He nodded. “As you wish.”

He fiddled with the stiff knobs of the radio, twisting left and right until a crackle of white noise filled the car. He jabbed at some buttons, willing the radio to tune into a station, but the swell of music or the enthusiastic voice of a radio presenter never came, the hissing and whirring of static the only audible sound. Gilbert turned the radio off.

“Uhm, there might be some tapes,” he suggested, willing there to be something to play, aware of Anne’s eyes boring into him. He leant forward, reaching for the glovebox and brushing against Anne’s bare knee accidentally, drawing his hand away as though he had been burnt.

“Sorry,” he mumbled bashfully, his eyes wide and his skin tingling as Anne’s back stiffened, goosepimples exploding along the surface of her skin.

“It’s fine,” she shot hastily, although she pressed her knees tightly together, her fingers clutching at the sides of her seat, her eyes wide and round, fixed firmly ahead of her. _What was that?_ she wondered. She was obviously well deprived of male company if that was the reaction she had to an accidental slip of the hand. The sooner they got to Charlottetown the better, she thought, away from this car and the person who drove it.

“Do you mind if I..?” He pointed towards the glove box again, Anne shaking her head in as nonchalant a manner she could muster, but her eyes watched warily as his hand moved forward again, careful to navigate around her skin, the glovebox clicking open and falling heavily against her knees.

“Oh, shit,” he exclaimed. “Oh, Red, I’m sorry…I..”

“It’s fine.” She repeated, her voice strained. He was clumsy and over apologetic; a little self-conscious. She didn’t realise he was like this, awkward and bumbling. He always seemed so self-assured. Hubristic, even; Anne remembered having called him that once before.

“I can look,” she suggested and he nodded, exhaling heavily in what Anne thought was relief. She fumbled inside the glove compartment, pulling out an old first aid kit, a pair of gloves and a flashlight, but no tapes. “Nada.”

“Great,” Gilbert muttered darkly, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel before prodding at the radio once more, pressing random buttons and hoping one would tune into a station, until the sound of a tape whirring to life filled the car, the soft strumming of a guitar dwarfing the silence. Gilbert grinned triumphantly. He knew that Bash had cleared the old maps and tapes from the car after their father had died, but he was thankful that he must have forgot to check the tape-deck; one going unnoticed, hiding inside the car all these years.

“ _First thing we’d climb a tree, and maybe then we’d talk.”_

Gilbert smiled fondly; it was _The Tragically Hip,_ one of his dad’s favourites. He remembered long road-trips with his father and brother, Bash in the front, Gilbert in the back, the windows down and the breeze rushing through, mussing up his hair. His father sang along loudly, his voice a little off key, a wide grin on his face.

“Sing-along if you know this one!” he would have cried, laughing as the boys cringed when they stopped at traffic lights, the people in the car beside shooting them curious looks. But John Blythe never cared. He lived life to the full; always finding something to laugh about. Bash was like that too, Gilbert thought, but it had by-passed Gilbert. He wasn’t a _fun_ person. Winnie always told him he was serious and sensible; that’s why she liked him.

“If I wanted a clown, I would have gone to the circus,” she would sulk in the cab home after a night spent partying with her friends, Winnie’s smile forced as Gilbert told a joke that fell flat amongst the Toronto socialites.

“I love _The Tragically Hip_ ,” Anne admitted, smiling at him as he shot a hasty glance towards her.

“My dad was a huge fan of theirs,” he replied and Anne nodded, a flicker of sympathy on her face, her mouth opening as though she was about to say something else before closing it again, turning from him and staring out of the window once more. Gilbert watched her, the trees and hedges they passed casting shadows against her creamy, freckled skin, flashes of light and dark. That was what interacting with Anne was like, he thought. A flash of light, something in common that he thought was a breakthrough, before he was cast into darkness again, her face turning from his, her shoulder cold. It would be a long summer if this continued, their conversation stilted, Gilbert extending an olive branch that she warily accepted before thrusting it back towards him again.

But they had _The Tragically Hip._ The first thing that tethered them together, and although they were silent, he smiled as he noticed her shoulders relax, slumping into her seat, her fingers tapping against her thigh in time to the music.

It was early afternoon when they reached Charlottetown, Gilbert circling the city centre, cursing under his breath as he looked for a parking lot or an empty space, somewhere to abandon the car before they went to find Billy.

He was apprehensive, his nerves prickling uncomfortably, his stomach sick. He wished they weren’t beginning the search with Billy. He had been easy to find, but Gilbert had a knot of dread in his stomach telling him that Billy would bring trouble with him; blow his cover or say something offensive to Anne like he used to in school, often joking about her looks or her background with the boys, Gilbert forcing a laugh to fit in, staring at Anne across the classroom, her smile wide, her eyes expressive, and wondering how anyone could think she was anything but beautiful; her eyes large and round, the exact same shade of blue as the sea, her hair as red as the cliffs that it crashed against. She looked like a nymph, borne from the earth of Prince Edward Island, everything about her ethereal and magical. And Gilbert didn’t even _like_ Anne, he noted hastily.

They parked in a side street, Anne’s hand pausing on the door handle as she took a deep, steadying breath.

“Are you alright?” he asked, watching as she exhaled through pursed lips, her eyes fluttering closed.

“I’m a little nervous,” she admitted, her eyes finding his. Gilbert swallowed thickly.

“No need to be,” he reassured, and he reached out instinctively, patting the hand that rested on her knee, squeezing her fingers lightly. Anne shivered at the contact, her eyes falling to their hands before finding Gilbert’s face once more, noticing that he was studying their hands too. He glanced upwards, flustering at Anne’s eyes on him, drawing his fingers from her and fumbling with the keys instead. “You ready?” he asked brightly.

Anne nodded, opening the door and climbing from her seat, Gilbert doing the same on the opposite side.

“Hey, Red,” he called and she turned to find him leaning against the top of the car, his brow furrowed lightly. “What happens if we don’t find him?”

Anne shrugged, wondering why he looked more worried than she did, his mouth set, his eyes squinted. She was the one who was risking her heart, wasn’t she? He was just tagging along for the company and the support, yet she felt at that moment she needed to bolster him; give him some sort of reassurance that she would be fine.

“Well, I have to try, don’t I? This could be the love of my life,” she joked lightly and the serious expression on his face melted into a soft smile, his brow softening. “I mean, people didn’t think we would be able to go to the moon and we did.”

Gilbert laughed, slamming the car door and turning the key in the lock. “You believe in the moon landing?” he jested and Anne smiled at his teasing tone. He sounded like himself once more, the trace of worry evaporating. “Next you’ll be telling me the Earth is round.”

“I should have known you were a flat-Earther,” Anne retorted as he joined her on the pavement. “Just another thing to add to the long list of reasons why I hate you.”

Gilbert snorted an incredulous laugh and Anne found herself laughing too, glancing up at him as they walked, his hazel eyes dancing with merriment, his tanned skin pulled taut against his strong jaw as he smiled, exposing his bottom row of endearingly crooked teeth.

 _Hate was a strange feeling, wasn’t it?_ she mused. It was cruel and spiteful and toxic, and although Anne used it to describe her feelings towards Gilbert, her intuition told her he was none of those things.

**********

 _Andrews Incorporated_ was an impressive building; large and glass fronted with curved chrome trimmings that bordered a cobbled industrial park, Gilbert pushing through the door and holding it open for Anne, allowing it to fall back against her when she fixed him with a sharp look, reminding him that she didn’t need his chivalry.

“Force of habit,” he shot by way of explanation.

The Andrews were giants in the market of frozen food, all of their marketing geared towards portraying their products towards being fresh, wholesome and home-made, despite Marilla calling them “an insult to food” and “practically inedible”, although their building was a direct contradiction to their branding of a chubby-cheeked lady with close set grey curls, beaming from the front of their packaging. It wasn’t homely and dated, but bright and modern, large pendulum lights suspended from the ceiling, illuminating a contemporary foyer, a glass-topped reception area paved in charcoal coloured tiles, a waiting area comprised of squat sofas covered in grey checked material.

“What’s the plan of action?” Gilbert asked, as they approached the receptionist, a pretty woman in a clingy wrap dress, her highlighted hair arranged in large barrel curls, her red lacquered nails clacking against her keyboard.

“I don’t know,” Anne muttered with a shrug. She hadn’t thought that far ahead; hoping that fate would intervene and she would collide with Billy accidentally without having to actively seek him out.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked brightly, her eyes flickering between Anne and Gilbert.

“Uhm, yes. I was hoping to speak to Billy Andrews?” Anne mumbled, flushing at how foolish she sounded. She felt unsure and self-conscious, hardly able to believe that she was here, Gilbert Blythe at her side, looking for someone who wrote a stupid letter she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about. It was ridiculous, really, and she felt herself cringe as the woman pursed her lips thoughtfully, Anne sensing they were about to be turned away.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked patronisingly and Anne felt herself shrink, shaking her head sheepishly. “I’m afraid if you don’t have an appointment, I won’t be able to help you. Mr Andrews is a _very_ busy man.”

She smiled sympathetically and Gilbert watched as Anne nodded dejectedly, his heart tight in his chest at the disappointed look to her face, her lips parted slightly, a furrow to her brow.

“She’s a journalist for _The Charlottetown Chronicle,”_ he blurted, Anne’s eyes rounding on him, her mouth falling open into a shocked ‘o’. What had he just done? It would have suited him so much better to have allowed her to walk away. She may never have come back again. He wouldn’t have to worry about Billy exposing him. They could go home, back to the car and _The Tragically Hip_ , back to Avonlea, but his mind had formulated a plan and his mouth had vocalised it before he had time to stop himself, seeing Anne disappointed leading him to act impulsively and unthinkingly. It wasn’t like him.

“ _The Chronicle?”_ the woman asked and Anne nodded once more, her face flushed. “And what is your business with Mr Andrews?”

“An - uhm,” Anne stuttered, attempting to engage her brain and mouth to tell a lie.

“An interview,” Gilbert offered smoothly. “An exclusive with Prince Edward Island’s youngest CEO.”

The receptionist smiled brightly. “An exclusive?” she repeated. “Take a seat. I’ll see if Mr Andrews is available.”

Anne and Gilbert settled into the soft grey sofas, Anne crossing her legs, her foot tapping twitchily as she surveyed the people coming through the foyer, Gilbert chattering beside her.

“That was quick thinking,” he began but Anne was focussed on the men in sharp, pinstriped suits and polished leather shoes, their hair slicked back; women in tight pencil skirts and black patent court heels, their limbs lean and tanned. It was all so glamorous and cosmopolitan; not at all like Anne, dressed in a vintage style midi dress, bright green and covered in ditzy flowers, the sweetheart neckline and short, puffed sleeves exposing her freckle covered skin.

“What am I doing here?” she whispered, her eyes meeting Gilbert’s. He stared at her, his mouth open slightly as he watched her brow furrow, her ocean blue eyes swirl with worry.

“What do you mean?” he asked her. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Have you seen the women he spends his days with?” Gilbert tore his eyes from Anne, scanning around the foyer, taking in the metropolitan women who paraded through it, clattering up the stairs in their heels. “There’s no _way_ he’ll be in to me.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Gilbert asked quietly, his voice low and gravelled. Anne’s head snapped towards him, her wide eyes locking with his, an intensity in them that drew a blush to Anne’s cheeks.

“Well, I’m…” she paused a moment, swallowing back as he eyed her, his honey laced gaze warming her skin, the heat settling low in her tummy. “I’m, you know – freckled. And homely. And…and red headed.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” he asked gently. Anne dropped her eyes from his, shifting uneasily in her seat.

“Well, I’m hardly a model, am I?” she retorted with a breathy laugh, blushing at his question. She didn’t need validation from _Gilbert Blythe,_ of all people, but there was something in his expression that made her feel a little hot, her skin goosepimpling. It made her feel as though what he thought of her should matter.

Gilbert stared at Anne, her cheeks pinkening as she fidgeted in her seat, readjusting her position. He had never realised she was so insecure before. He had always thought she was so self-assured; cutting him down to size in class with her sharp tongue and glacial gaze. He didn’t realise she worried about things like her looks, but he didn’t think she needed to be concerned about them. She was beautiful; a perfectly oval face with large blue eyes and a button nose, rosy pink bee-stung lips, her hair as bright as a bonfire tumbling around her shoulders in thick waves.

“You’re perfect the way you are, Red.” Gilbert smiled reassuringly at Anne as she stared at him, his words echoing around Anne’s mind. _Perfect._ Perfect the way she was. He probably didn’t mean it, or course, but Anne’s heart felt light, wondering if he meant to word it like that; as though he thought she was _pretty._ Little did he know she was so unsure of herself and her looks, hating her hair so much, because of him. All of his teasing of ‘red’ and ‘carrots’ making her hair her most despised feature, the bane of her life; pumpkin-patch orange and much too ostentatious.

Anne opened her mouth to ask him what he meant by his statement; if he intended it to be interpreted as she had, when she changed her mind. She smiled at him instead, a genuine smile, that he returned.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They fell silent once more, Gilbert’s warm hazel eyes remaining locked to Anne’s, a lopsided smile on his face, when the click-clack of heels on the tiles and a bright voice distracted them, Anne flummoxed as the receptionist’s bright voice tore her from her trance.

“Mr Andrews will see you now,” she announced, directing them up the stairs and to the left, Gilbert and Anne thanking her.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Gilbert asked as Anne stood. He wasn’t sure what he would rather she said. If she said yes, he would be there, serving as a reminder of the letter to Billy that he may have otherwise forgotten, but if he wasn’t, he would have no control over steering the conversation from himself. Anne shook her head, the decision made for him.

“Alright. Good luck.”

She crossed the foyer, bounding up the stairs and to the first floor, greeted by a large open plan area, with plush grey carpet underfoot, following a corridor of glass fronted offices to a dark wooden door at the end, the name William Andrews printed on the front. Anne took a deep breath, knocking sharply, her hand trembling as the voice on the other side called for her to enter.

Billy was standing by the window when Anne entered the room; a striking silhouette, backlit by the sunlight that streamed through the window.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Anne Shirley-Cuthbert,” he purred as Anne closed the door behind her.

“In the flesh,” she quipped as he gestured for her to sit in the seat before his desk, snapping the file he held in his hand closed and tossing it onto his desk. He was handsome, Anne thought, filling out his broad shoulders in his maturity, his cheeks hollowed, the boyish roundness to his face gone, the rugged features of a man remaining. He suited this role, crisp tailoring and movements exerting his dominance, asking her to sit and rounding the desk to lean against the front of it, his towering height making her feel small..

“What brings you here?” he asked, his voice smooth. “Except me?”

He chuckled at his own joke, Anne laughing politely, watching as he ran his hand over his neatly cropped hair, his eyes roving over her hungrily, eyeing the cleavage visible in her sundress. She shifted nervously, fighting the urge to cover herself with her arm and suddenly wishing that Gilbert was with her.

“I was informed you’re writing an article on me?” he grinned wolfishly, striding to his chair and sinking into the leather, his legs spread, filling as much room as possible.

“I am,” Anne lied, unsure how to lead into why she was actually there, in his office where everything was flashy and expensive; even the air smelt like designer cologne. She realised she didn’t have a notebook with her, or a pen, thinking on her feet and drawing her phone from her bag. “Do you mind if I record this?” she asked.

Billy leant forward, his elbows resting on the table. “Not at all,” he drawled, his gaze raking over her once more, eyeing her hungrily like a dog who hadn’t been fed.

Anne flushed, her fingers fumbling, unable to work properly in her agitated state. “Sorry,” she laughed breathily.

“Am I making you nervous?” he asked, the wolfish smile on his face once more, exposing two rows of perfectly veneered teeth, polished white. It was a catalogue smile, a smile with no character; no crooked bottom teeth or a dimple on the left cheek. Anne flushed, dropping her eyes from Billy when she realised who she was comparing his smile to; the man who sat down the stairs waiting for her to return.

“Not at all,” Anne replied, although she knew Billy could tell she was lying. She tapped into her voice recorder app, lying her phone between them on the table.

“Anne Shirley-Cuthbert interviewing Billy Andrews, July 2nd, 2021,” she rhymed, smiling tightly at Billy over the table. She felt uncomfortable with him, as though he was undressing her with his eyes, her skin prickling and burning with embarrassment. She wondered if she was supposed to feel like that as he gazed at her, his finger tracing his bottom lip in what she imagined he must have thought was a seductive way.

“So, Billy, how long have you been working at Andrews Incorporated?” she asked, her head conjuring generic questions that he would expect from an interview, hoping she could tactfully incorporate her question about he letter into the flow of the interview.

“Since I left school,” he replied, “seven years ago.”

“You didn’t go to college?” she asked.

He scoffed. “I had no need for college. I worked hard and got where I needed to be without a piece of paper.” She nodded politely although she wondered where he would be if his father wasn’t the owner of his company. Maybe working a farm at home or struggling to move forward with his career after getting a college degree like her. It was funny how life seemed to bless some people; money and good looks and influential parents, while other’s had bad luck and learned to bear it. “What is that saying…” he paused a moment, tapping at his mouth. “’Some are born great; some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them’.”

Anne’s eyes widened, impressed at his ability to quote classic literature. She didn’t think he was the sort of person who retained book quotes. “Shakespeare,” she smiled and Billy’s brow furrowed, a wicked laugh ripping from his throat.

“ _She’s the Man_ ,” he shot, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as though he thought Anne was the dumbest person he had ever encountered.

Anne’s face fell, her hand shooting upwards to smother a smile. “Right,” she squeaked, attempting the quell a gurgle of laughter that threatened to burst from her throat.

He leant back in his seat; his arms thrown out wide. “I love inspirational quotes,” he mused, moving his hands behind his head, his face straining as his biceps flexed beneath his suit jacket, Anne’s mouth agape as she stared. He was trying to impress her, she realised, and he must have thought it was working, grinning broadly at her. “Like what you see?” he asked suggestively.

“Billy, I’m going to just tell you why I’m here,” she announced, putting an end to the game he was playing, the scent of cologne becoming heavy now, the floor to ceiling glass windows trapping the heat, the room suddenly stuffy. Anne needed to escape for fresh air. She wasn’t used to people peacocking in front of her; she didn’t know how to react. She searched in her bag and pulled the letter from it, tossing it in front of him. “This has recently come into my possession,” she explained as he took the letter from the envelope. “I want to know if you wrote it.”

Billy scanned the letter, a sly smile on his face that Anne was unable to read. She wondered if it meant that he recognised it as his or if he was amused at the thought of someone else feeling her worthy of such a romantic letter.

“You want to know who wrote it?” he crooned, folding the letter against the creases and shoving it forcefully back into the confines of the envelope, the edge of the paper dog-eared.

“Yes,” Anne affirmed plainly.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Why?” Anne asked, her brow lined with bewilderment. 

“If you meet me at ‘The Gold Rush’ bar at eight thirty, I might just have the answer to that question.”

Anne stared at him, a grin to his face as he held the letter between two fingers waving it towards her. She reached out to take it and he snapped it away teasingly. “Your answer?” he pressed, holding the letter out of her grasp.

“Fine,” she replied and Billy threw the letter onto the table towards her.

“I have work to do,” he barked, dismissing Anne with a wave of his hand. “But I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

*********

“And you agreed to go with him _why?”_ Diana hissed at Anne the next evening, sitting up on Anne’s bed and staring at her wide eyed as Anne paced from the wardrobe to the mirror, holding a slinky black cocktail dress before her, sighing and tossing it aside.

“Because,” Anne stated weakly, returning to her wardrobe and rifling through the contents, the metal hangers screeching against the rail.

“You said he made you uncomfortable,” Diana argued, her eyes boring into Anne’s back.

“He did,” Anne replied defeatedly. “But if he wrote the letter, I need to know.”

“Do you think he wrote it?” Diana puzzled, watching as Anne moved back to the mirror, a silky green slip-dress in her hand. “Because from what you told me, he doesn’t sound like he did.”

“Well, I can’t _presume,_ can I?” Anne answered, turning towards Diana and holding the dress before her for Diana’s opinion.

“Yes to that one,” Diana agreed, nodding enthusiastically. “What did Gilbert think?”

“Gilbert doesn’t know,” Anne stated, tearing her t-shirt from over her head and slipping the dress on. Anne had decided to not share all of the details of her meeting with Billy, instead informing Gilbert that he was flirtatious and wanted to take her for a drink.

Gilbert had forced a smile, uncertain that Billy’s intentions with Anne were honourable. Billy Andrews had always played fast and loose where other’s feelings were concerned, leading women on and tossing them away when he became bored of them or found someone new to play with. His love life was a game of cat and mouse, playful until he cornered them, trapping them beneath his claws and lifting them by the tail, reaping enjoyment from their terrified squeaks. He knew Anne could handle Billy Andrews and he was grateful Billy obviously didn’t expose him as the letter writer, deciding to use it for his own personal gratification, but he still didn’t want to see Anne hurt, remembering how uneasy he felt that evening all those years ago, cowering in the meadow by the old farmhouse, willing Anne to stay away from the trap Billy had lured her into.

“You’re meeting him?” Gilbert had asked as they walked back to the car.

“Of course,” Anne replied. “The whole point of this quest is to find love right?” She paused by the car door, watching as Gilbert stared at her over the roof of the car, shaking his head slightly and ducking his head to unlock the door.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“You’re coming with me though, right?” she asked hastily, Gilbert’s head snapping upwards to spot a flash of apprehension cross her features. “I mean, we’re a team in this, right?”

He wasn’t sure if he had only imagined it but he thought she sounded worried; her voice laced with an edge of concern.

“Of course, Red,” he assured her. “I’ll be with you whenever you want me to.”

Their drive home had been quiet, _The Tragically Hip_ playing softly as Anne ruminated on what she had agreed to, a flutter of anxiety in her stomach when she thought of what the next night would bring, Gilbert shooting sidelong looks at Anne as he ripped through the gears, the old mustang gathering speed as they merged onto the motorway to go home, worry lines etched onto her brow and around her mouth as her hand tapped out the rhythm of the music.

“You are ahead by a century!” he sang loudly, Anne’s head jerking towards him and an unexpected burst of laughter ripping from her throat. “You are ahead by a century. You are ahead by a century!”

“And disappointing you is getting me down,” Anne sang, laughing as Gilbert grinned at her, her mood instantly lightened by his velvety voice.

Anne adjusted the straps of the dress over her shoulders, smiling softly as she remembered their laughter as they sang, Gilbert’s company distracting her from her dark thoughts. She spun from Diana, turning towards the mirror and scrutinising her appearance, the material falling softly against her stomach and over her hips, covering her cleavage but dipping low at the back. “I asked him to come with tonight though,” she admitted. “He’s picking me up.”

“Oh really?” Diana asked coyly, her eyebrows curving upwards suggestively. “You two are getting on then?” she asked, flopping onto her stomach, her chin propped in her hand.

“He’s _helping_ me, Diana? Like Ruby forced him to. Don’t be reading too much into it.”

Anne looped three fine gold chains around her neck and added delicate dropped earrings, swearing under her breath as she forced her feet into strappy heels.

“Wowza!” Diana exclaimed as Anne turned to her. “You’re going to knock his socks off.”

Anne turned towards the mirror, smiling approvingly as she took in her appearance, her hair brushed into a low ponytail, soft tendrils falling around her face. She had been so careful getting ready, fussing over her dress and her jewellery, what lipstick she should wear, but she wasn’t sure why. She didn’t want it to be Billy and certainly didn’t care what he thought of her. But she felt nice; _perfect,_ even. Perfect as she was; just like Gilbert said.

There was a knock to the door, Diana smiling as Anne’s eyes widened. “Time to go, I suppose.”

Diana drew Anne into a hug, drawing away and cupping her face between her hands. “You are beautiful and glorious and no stupid boy shall ever make you feel otherwise,” Diana reminded her. “Go get ‘em.” Anne laughed as she left her room, Diana trailing behind her. She entered the kitchen to find Gilbert speaking politely to Marilla, a smile on his face as his eyes landed on Anne and glanced away before snapping back to her again, his mouth agape.

“Anne…” he breathed and Anne smiled. She liked when he used her name, especially when his voice was low and breathy like that, a shiver zinging down Anne’s spine. It sounded special when he said it, elegant and beautiful, not short and sharp; a singular, insignificant syllable like when everyone else called her it. “You, uhm,” his hand brushed at his neck.” You look really…”

“Cold,” Marilla interrupted. “I hope you’re taking a jacket.”

Anne cringed at her mother’s fussing, her skin reddening with mortification as Marilla’s fretful hands tugged at her dress like she was a child, Gilbert’s features rounded with amusement. Anne pulled away from her, flapping her away hurriedly.

“Marilla, it’s July,” she reminded her with a laugh. “It’s warm enough.”

“You can still catch a cold in the summer,” Marilla grumbled, nodding towards Gilbert. “What does the doctor have to think of this?”

“She’ll be fine,” he answered lightly. “She’s made of sturdy stuff.”

Marilla hugged Anne goodbye, warning Gilbert to drive safely as they made their way onto the porch. “I want her returned to me in one piece,” she joked from the porch, Diana waving from her side. “Knowing her, she’ll find herself lying in a ditch.”

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t fall in any ditches,” Gilbert answered, his tone teasing, his face arranged in mock sincerity. “You have my word.”

Marilla waved as Gilbert opened the car door for Anne who wobbled unsteadily in her heels, the gravelled driveway uneven beneath her feet. He shot his hand out, cupping her elbow and easing her into the car, slamming the door closed behind her when she was comfortable. Anne stared at him as he rounded the bonnet to the other side, her skin warmed where his hand had been. It felt like something from a period drama; Mr Darcy helping Elizabeth Bennet into a carriage, his hand flexing at her touch afterwards. But that was impossible. She didn’t think of Gilbert like that and he certainly didn’t feel like that about her. He was showing off before Marilla, that was all. Acting the proper gentleman while her mother fussed about her well-being.

“Are you ready?” he asked as he slipped in beside her, Anne nodding in response. The engine purred to life with a twist of the keys, the radio flickering to life along with the car and Anne smiled, singing softly as they drove towards Charlottetown, streaks of evening gold mingling with the soft blue sky, dappling the fields in a wash of gold.

“Cows,” Anne observed as they sped past the fields and Gilbert laughed gently, casting a side-long look at her, the evening sun warming her skin and making her hair appear as though it was a burst of bright flames, golden glints of sunlight glimmering through it like bright sparks bursting forth.

It was twilight when they arrived in Charlottetown, Gilbert parking outside ‘The Gold Rush’ as the sky turned a hazy blue. Anne opened her door stepping out onto the pavement, eyeing the establishment Billy had chosen. It looked flashy and expensive, definitely the type of place Billy would have brought a date. The windows were tall and thin, painted in a rich cream, the door heavy glass trimmed in a golden gilding, the name printed in curling letters. Anne took a step forward, pausing when Gilbert remained beside the car.

“Aren’t you coming?” she asked, his eyes widening at her as he rocked uncertainly onto his heels.

“You want me to go in with you?” he asked. “You know what they say about three, right?”

“You don’t have to sit with us,” she rushed, glancing towards the bar again and spotting Billy through the window, leaning against the counter, a wolfish grin to his face as he chatted to the barmaid, eyeing her appreciatively as she moved to collect a glass from the shelf behind. “I just don’t know if I want to be alone,” she admitted, glancing back at him sheepishly. “Diana never lets me go on a first date without a drive by.”

“A drive by?” he questioned.

“You know, she’ll be sitting somewhere in the bar and then come upon me like she was there already and just bumped into me,” Anne explained with a shrug. “A drive by. Just to check in and make sure he isn’t an ass.” And Anne had a sinking feeling in her stomach that Billy may have just been the type of person that women created the drive-by for.

Gilbert nodded grimly, following Anne into the crowded bar and settling into an unoccupied table by the door, ordering a soft drink from the passing waiter and watching as Anne weaved through the tables, the emerald material of her dress glimmering under the soft lights, the dress shifting lower at her back, exposing more of her creamy skin. Gilbert tore his eyes away as Billy greeted her with a toothy smile, his hand low on her back as he drew her in, pressing a wet kiss to her cheek that Gilbert noticed Anne brush away with the back of her hand. He felt his face melt into a smile.

Billy led them to a booth, sliding in close to Anne, his leg pressing into hers, Anne jerking her head from him as he crowded her space. He wore another neatly tailored suit in a tasteful French navy and he slowly peeled the jacket from his body, grinning at Anne as he moved slowly, curving his body and forcing his muscles to flex beneath his shirt. Anne smiled wanly, unsure whether she should watch him or not, knowing he wished her to enjoy the display despite it making Anne’s skin crawl.

“I’m just going to use the ladies,” she shot wildly, slipping from the other side of their seat, Billy falling forward onto his hands without Anne to writhe against.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked and Anne nodded.

“Please,” she answered. “A double gin with lemonade.” She needed something strong if she was to get through this night. She fled to the bathroom, passing Gilbert who eyed her warily, mouthing “Are you alright?” as she passed, Anne nodding in response, her heels clattering against the slippery cream tiles as she pushed into the restroom, taking her time to wipe the mascara around her eyes and dab more gloss onto her lips, washing her hands thoroughly, lathering the soap as much as she could to give herself time to collect herself again. Billy came on strong, she thought. She wasn’t expecting such a forward display when she hadn’t yet been in his company five minutes. She rubbed at her brow, taking a deep breath and blowing it out slowly as she stared at herself in the mirror. She had one mission tonight, she reminded herself. All she needed to do was find out if he wrote the letter. Once she had accomplished that, she could leave.

She pulled the door open slowly, walking steadily back to the booth she shared and slipping back into her seat.

“Sorry about that,” she replied brightly and Billy grinned at her, lifting his glass to Anne’s and clinking it against the rim of hers.

“Not to worry,” he rumbled, his voice a low vibration that Anne had to lean in to hear over the rousing lounge music. “Drink up,” he ordered, tossing his drink back with one gulp, Anne swallowing a large mouthful of hers in the hope that it would give her the courage she needed to ask what she wanted to know so she could cut this night short, going home to curl up with Marilla and watch reruns of _The Golden Girls,_ Marilla’s hand brushing at Anne’s hair as they both sang “Thank you for being a friend” along with the opening credits. “Oh, thirsty girl,” Billy crooned, a dirty cackle ripping from his throat as he ran an ice-cube along is lip suggestively, Anne cringing, throwing a pleading look at Gilbert who shrugged in reply, unsure whether she wanted him to intervene and end it or whether that would have been counterproductive.

“So, about my letter,” Anne began and Billy snorted a laugh, his hand finding her thigh and squeezing. “You don’t wait around do you?” he leered, his eyes roaming over her animalistically, raking over her cleavage and the exposed skin of her neck. “Luckily, neither do I.” He lunged forward, sucking a sloppy kiss onto her neck, Anne attempting to jerk away from him as his hand pressed against her, pinning her in place. She watched as Gilbert sprung to his feet, Anne lifting her glass and knocking the drink back, thrusting the glass outwards and demanding “Another drink, please,” so as to not cause a scene; Gilbert storming over with that thunderous look on his face and causing a fight. Billy sighed, his lips disconnecting from Anne’s skin with a wet pop, taking her glass from her and clambering from their seat, heading towards the bar. Anne watched him sit the empty glass on the countertop, the waitress lifting another from the shelf and filling it, before she scanned the bar to find Gilbert back in his seat, watching her with a dark expression on his face. He was worried, she realised, although she wasn’t sure why he cared. He was going to let her come alone before she asked him otherwise, requiring someone to be in her corner, a friendly face to bolster her when she was in need of a boost of confidence, even if that friendly face was in the form of Gilbert Blythe, who seemed the perfect gentleman tonight compared to the lecherous Billy Andrews.

Billy returned from the bar, slamming two glasses against the table, raising his to his mouth and knocking it back in one go, before turning back to Anne, the smell of whiskey hot on his breath as he inched closer to Anne, his hands pawing at her thighs and hips as he pressed a kiss to her shoulder, trailing his thick tongue along her collarbone and up her neck, Anne shivering at the contact. She lifted her glass, ready to take a sip when she noticed it fizz, a minute pill dissolving at the bottom of the glass. Anne froze, watching as the little tablet disappeared in a flurry of bubbles that rose to the surface and popped, the only indication that it had ever been there disappearing. _What were his intentions for tonight?_ she wondered crossly. He had slipped something into her drink. What would it have done? How many girls had he done that to before, waking up the next day in an unfamiliar bed with no recollection of how they got there? Anne felt his hand trail higher, groping at her breast, Anne pushing his hand roughly from her.

“Billy stop,” she ordered, Billy laughing darkly as he laved at her earlobe. “Quit it, Billy,” she demanded, wriggling from him, his hands groping at her, pressing roughly into the soft flesh of her waist. “Billy!” Anne cried, her hand closing around her glass and, with one swift movement, soaking him with the contents, her fist thrusting upwards, the heel of her hand colliding with his nose, a sharp crack audible.

“What the _fuck,_ Anne?” he yelled, tearing roughly away from her, wiping at the blood that dripped from his nose, dribbling from his chin and onto his shirt, seeping into the material; the blood dark, contrasting with the stark white. “What the fuck was that for?”

“I don’t want you to touch me, Billy,” she retorted, her voice quivering with rage, Gilbert pacing across the bar and stopping at their table.

“It’s time to go, Red,” he said softly, leaning in to take her hand and helping her slip from the seat, Billy watching with a gormless expression on his face at the materialisation of Gilbert before him, his fingers curled around Anne’s hand.

“You’re a fucking snake, Blythe,” Billy hissed nefariously, a lewd grin on his face, his teeth blackened with blood as he leant onto his elbows, nodding to gain Anne’s attention. “Hey, you want to know who wrote your letter?” he asked Anne, his voice mocking. “You’re looking at him.” He leant back laughing. “You two suit each other perfectly. A snake and a fucking cock-tease.”

“Come on, Anne,” Gilbert urged, leading Anne away by the elbow, Anne casting a long look over her shoulder towards Billy, as he called after them, “I’ll see you in court!”

Anne stared ahead, stumbling onto the paved sidewalk after Gilbert, who rounded on her, taking her shoulders in his hands, ducking his head to meet her eyes. “Are you alright?” he asked, Anne nodding numbly, her body shivering as the adrenaline wore off. He tore off his denim jacket, slinging it around Anne’s shoulders and closing it over at the front, the jacket overwhelming her narrow frame. “Do you want to tell me what happened in there?” he asked, Anne shaking her head in response.

“I want to go home,” she said, her voice small and quavering.

“Sure,” he agreed. “Let’s go.”

*********

Anne was quiet on the drive home, her eyes untrained on anything, the streetlights illuminating houses and buildings that flashed by in a blur as they left the city, the road plunged into blackness as they neared the country; the fields empty, the roads clear.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Gilbert pressed, shooting her a hasty look from the corner of his eye, Anne shrinking into the leather, biting painfully into her bottom lip to stop it wobbling.

“No.” She didn’t want to talk about it; she wanted it to be a distant memory, the feeling of his tongue on her skin and his fingers pressing into her, groping at her forcibly. Anne was sure she would have Billy shaped bruises the next morning. She reflected on what he had said; a _cock-tease_ , like she had asked him to paw at her, slip something into her glass that would have had left her open to unknown consequences, Billy groping and touching her against her will. Or worse.

She shuddered at the thought, remembering what he said before they left. _“You’re looking at him.”_ What had he meant by that, she wondered? Surely he couldn’t have been the author. There was no way someone so vulgar and so crude could have written something so honest and sentimental. So loving. She glanced towards Gilbert, questioning whether it had been him he was referring to before shaking her head. There was no way. It couldn’t have been. They had come too far now for him to be lying. Billy must have been referring to himself, guilting her into staying with him. She flexed her wrist, sore from the punch she had thrown at Billy, Gilbert glancing towards her hand as she circled it.

“You have some right hook,” he joked lightly, smiling at her as she flexed her fingers thoughtfully.

She hummed. “Aren’t you lucky I’ve never used it on you,” she quipped in response, huffing out a mirthless laugh as she watched the fields melt away, the dusty buildings of Avonlea come into view, the old barn that housed the livestock market and the garage.

“I can walk from here,” Anne suggested softly. “I’d like some air.”

“I’m leaving you home,” he answered, smirking at her, an eyebrow cocked. “What would Marilla think of me if you arrived home alone, Red?”

“She knows how persuasive I can be,” Anne retorted. “Just let me out here.”

“I’m not stopping the car.”

“Gilbert, let me go,” Anne ordered forcefully, her voice tearing from her louder than she intended, Gilbert slamming on the brakes unexpectedly.

“Jesus, Anne! You scared me,” he laughed, although Anne didn’t listen, throwing open the door and clambering onto the street, Gilbert’s jacket pulled tight around her shoulders. “Anne!” he called after her. “Anne, get back in the car,” he pleaded, muttering darkly at how difficult she was as he watched her slam the door closed and disappear towards the park, the darkness swallowing her whole. He groaned, guilt filling the cavity of his chest at the thoughts he had just had about her; thinking her difficult when she had just come through a trauma. A trauma he had led her to with the lie he had told. He had a feeling Billy would cause trouble; he hated that he had been proven right.

He tore the keys from the ignition, climbing from the car and slamming the door behind him, taking off at a run in the direction Anne had walked, the path leading him around the side of the park and towards the meadow, a path worn into the overgrowth that opened out into a clearing surrounded by a thicket of trees, a large, ramshackle farmhouse standing proudly in the centre, dappled in silvery starlight. Gilbert swallowed back, recognising where he was instantly. The last time he had been here he was with Billy, both of them waiting for Anne to follow the instructions of her letter and meet them there. It was strange, he thought as he spotted her standing in the centre of the grass, her head tilted back as she stared at the stars, that the events of the evening would lead her here tonight.

He approached her from behind, the grass soft beneath his feet and watched her stir, her head turn slightly towards him as she heard him approach.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she whispered as stopped beside her, staring up at the stars.

“It is,” Gilbert answered, although he couldn’t take his eyes from her, her skin glowing under the moonlight, her freckles dotted like constellations over her face. She glanced towards him, shouldering into him lightly. “Is this your thinking spot?” he laughed lightly.

She nodded, a smile on her face. “It’s where the sky is clearest,” she informed him, glancing upwards again, before resting her gaze on him. “Thank you for being with me tonight.”

He nodded. “Of course,” he replied, his voice soft and low, as sumptuous as midnight black coloured velvet. Her face was strained, he thought, her jaw clenched tight and her lips pressed together, and he reached out to her, drawing her towards him and enveloping her into his arms, the action unexpected to both of them, Anne going rigid in Gilbert’s embrace.

“What are you doing?” she mumbled into the jersey of his t-shirt.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of a hug,” Gilbert quipped light-heartedly, feeling Anne’s nose brush against his chest as she nodded.

“Why are you giving me one?”

“You look like you need it.”

It was a simple statement but it’s meaning felt momentous to Anne, her body sinking into him as his arms wrapped tighter around her, cradling her close, Anne’s arms wrapping around his waist as his chin rested on top of her head, his nose inhaling the scent of her shampoo, his nostrils filled with the scent of wild-flowers and lichens tinged with sea-salt. She smelt like she belonged in this meadow, the grass overgrown, the heads of flowers bobbing in the chilled breeze, the waft of sea air blowing in from the east.

Anne felt herself melt into his chest, drawing comfort from his warmth. She thought of her day; of Billy and the letter, remembering that the author had asked to meet her here, underneath the night sky, just like this.

“We can stop looking if you want to,” Gilbert murmured, drawing back from Anne to look into her face. She glanced upwards, shaking her head.

“I’m going to find him,” she stated determinedly, and Gilbert nodded. She had always been persistent; he knew that.

Gilbert drew her towards him again, his arms cuddling her close, Anne sinking into his chest.

“He confused a Shakespeare quote with _She’s the Man,”_ Anne mumbled, her shoulders shaking as she sniggered, Gilbert laughing along with her, gladdened to see her more like herself.

“I told you he was dumb, ” he soothed.

Gilbert rocked her slightly as he hugged her to him, and Anne felt glad that it was him she was with tonight. Someone that she felt may understand her better than she gave him credit for, and not a stranger who authored a mysterious love letter, holding her close, both of them laughing under the starry night sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I ever write a story where Billy isn't the biggest douche in all of Canada?  
> No, I don't believe I will.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. As you know, I've taken a wobble with this story but I really enjoyed writing Anne and Gilbert together in more scenes.  
> I really miss pining Gilbert but I'm enjoying writing them navigating their feelings and fumbling through this very new friendship that they are testing. 
> 
> For anyone curious, 'She's the Man' is an early 2000's teenaged rom-com and I still find it hilariously funny, even to this day. 
> 
> If you wish to, do leave a little comment or some feedback. I love hearing your thoughts and predictions. They always put a smile on my face. 
> 
> That's all for now!  
> Until next time,  
> Becky x


	5. Chapter Four: ‘Both turn everything we touch into something really living - & amusing – for ourselves. Both can laugh – really laugh – even at our heartaches…’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne and Gilbert bond in their search for Roy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rolls back rock from front of cave I’ve been hiding in, peeks head out*
> 
> Hello, are you all still there?
> 
> Well, that was the longest fortnight in the history of the world. Apologies for the wait. It’s taken a while to get back into a routine with work and real life got in the way, so disclaimer: updates WILL be slower than I first anticipated. Sorry!  
> A huge thank you to the lovely dashingwhitesgt and the_strangest_person (and I learnt how to tag people, hooray!) for taking the time to read an earlier draft and telling me to slow things down and not rush Anne and Gilbert’s story. I appreciate you two so much, you wonderful, wonderful humans!
> 
> And because of that, this slow burn has gotten even slower!
> 
> This chapter has little plot but lots of feelings!  
> (Side note: it should have been longer but I had to split it into two to include all I wanted so plot will commence next chapter)
> 
> Alexa, play ‘Getting to Know You’ from the King and I.
> 
> This chapter title was taken from a letter from Georgia O’Keefe to Alfred Stieglitz.
> 
> And so we beat on…

In the stillness of the night air, everything seemed loud. The tide was in, the waves crashing noisily against the red-tinged cliff face, gurgling as the water drew back towards the depths of the ocean. An owl hooted overhead; large eyes glowing bright in the dark. The door of the old farm house creaked against the rush of the sea air, almighty gusts pushing over the cliffs, rushing through the boughs of trees, the leaves rustling as it passed before crashing against the north facing wall, the aged windows rattling, the panes of glass loose in the weather-beaten wooden frames. Cars sped past, the hum of engines faintly audible through the thicket of trees that concealed the meadow from the main road, the long grasses that Gilbert lay in brushing gently against each other, tickling at his exposed arms as gently as ivory fingertips, a tremor of electricity tremble down his spine at the sensation, his smooth olive skin exploding with goosepimples.

Being in the meadow was like being seated in the audience of a great philharmonic orchestra; the coo of the wood pigeons and chirp of the crickets harmonising perfectly, the moon hanging overhead like a great conductor watching dutifully over its musicians.

But Gilbert wasn’t listening.

All he could hear was Anne; her breath short and shallowing where she lay beside him in the grass, her eyes like a magician’s cape; the ocean blue darkening into a mystical violet, silvery stars reflected in her shining orbs. 

He sighed, twisting his head from her and up towards the velvety midnight sky, counting the stars to distract himself from his sudden need to glance at her again. He wasn’t sure if it was guilt or a need to make sure she was alright, but he had a feeling like he had to keep looking at her; something about how she looked tonight drawing him to her like a sailor being called by a siren, lured from the safety of his ship and into the depths below, pulled below the frothy surface to never emerge again.

He sighed, running his hand across his chest and letting it rest over his heart, the heat of where Anne’s head had burrowed against him still warming his skin. His mouth quirked; the left corner tugging upwards into a secretive smile. The circumstances were terrible; awful. Billy was vermin and Gilbert knew that, but he couldn’t help but feel like they had taken a step forward. It was tentative and unsure, but she allowed him to hold her without protestations, Anne grumbling under her breath how much she despised him or claiming her independence and how she didn’t _need_ him. And he knew she didn’t, but sometimes it was nice to have a friend. To have someone sitting in the corner, ready to take over when the weariness of the fight became too much, and he was happy she allowed him to be that for her. To take her weight when she felt tired and heavy, sweeping her off her feet and carrying her bridal-style until she was strong enough to stand on her own two feet again, Gilbert satisfied to keep pace by her side. 

He felt his head turn again, his eyes find her, tracing her profile as she stared upwards; his gaze dancing over the slope of her forehead and curve of her button-nose, bee-stung lips slightly parted, her breath a cloud of misty air as she exhaled into the night. Her haughty little chin thrust upwards as her eyes roamed across the heavens, mystified by the twinkling stars, and as though she could feel him watching her, she began to speak; her voice soft and low, mingling harmoniously with the symphony of nature around her. The first violin, leading the swelling melody. Gilbert felt his breath catch in his throat.

“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

He swallowed back, his mouth suddenly dry as she turned towards him, an amused smile curving her mouth as she waited expectantly for his answer. Her eyes locked to his, her hair spilling over her shoulders and pooling in the grass like hot magma, illuminated by the glow of the moon, Gilbert fought a peculiar urge to reach out and touch it, to wrap a coil around his finger lest he be left singed. 

“It is,” he choked, his voice a croak, his eyes lost in the silvery starlight that twinkled in Anne’s gaze. She laughed, her hands finding her ribs as she giggled, her knees drawing upwards slightly as her back arched off the grass, the hem of her shimmering green dress slipping further up, exposing more of her smooth cream thighs. Gilbert felt himself chuckle quietly, grinning at her laughter, his eyes finding her bare thighs, the skin there flecked with freckles that mirrored the constellations above them. He traced her body, his eyes finding her face again, her cheeks still rounded with a grin. “What’s so funny?” he asked, his voice deep and velvety once again.

“You,” she laughed. “You sounded like a frog.” She faced him once more, her voice low but squeaking as she mimicked him. “It is.”

She dissolved into giggles again and Gilbert felt himself chuckle with her, his eyes still trained to her as she stared towards the moon, her laughter transforming into a deep sigh.

“But it’s been a strange night, hasn’t it?” she reflected. “What happened with Billy feels like hours ago now.”

Gilbert nodded his agreement. The minutes after the incident with Billy moved slowly, Gilbert watching Anne cautiously, ready to catch her if she broke, yet she hadn’t. She stood firm and proud, her anger dissipating into frenzied laughter as she retold the story of her first interview with Billy and all that he had said, Anne’s head tucked against his chest, his arms wrapped around her. And eventually, when their legs became weary, they collapsed into the grass, Gilbert sitting across from Anne cross-legged as he watched her pick daisies from the grass, splitting the stem and threading another through to create a long chain of sweet white petal heads with butter yellow centres; her movements methodical. And time seemed to move quickly then, when it felt easy to be with her. He liked when it felt like that. When their conversation was convivial and teasing, something zinging between them; a connection that ran deeper than mere acquaintances who _tolerated_ each other.

“Hey, Gilbert,” Anne whispered, distracting him from his thoughts of watching her lying back into the grass, her curls licking at it like tongues of fire, her dress drawn tight around her waist.

“Hmm?”

He heard the grass rustle; could sense her reach for him and he felt himself stiffen in anticipation for the contact, his stomach clench.

“Thank you for being with me tonight.” Her hand found his, wrapping around it and squeezing lightly, her touch as gentle as the brush of a feather. He shivered, glancing downwards at where her fingers tangled with his, his hands rough against her satiny skin, glowing ivory under the moon. He felt his mouth go dry.

“Any time,” he replied, his chest flooded suddenly with guilt, his arms flailing as he struggled to keep his head above water. He led her to this. This was on him. “I’m sorry.”

The words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them, his eyes rounding in shock at his lack of self-control as Anne turned to him, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Sorry?” she repeated. “What are you sorry for?”

He felt himself shrink under her gaze, tearing his eyes from her and staring skyward again to regain rule of his own thoughts and control of his speech. There was something about her that made him want to be honest, but honesty would ruin this; send the house of cards they were carefully stacking, the King of Clubs leaning precariously against the Queen of Hearts, tumbling downwards until they were a chaotic jumble scattered across the table top.

“I, uhm...” He paused. He was sorry. He wanted her to know that. He was sorry for what happened; for the letter and the farce he found himself a part of. For the hurt this night brought her and for all that might come. But he wanted to be with her. He wanted to be by her side, his pace matching hers as they faced each adventure together. “I’m sorry you had to go through that tonight,” he concluded.

“Don’t be. I’m made of sturdy stuff.” She drew her hand from Gilbert’s and he watched silently as she pinched her wrist, grinning as she turned to him. “See? That didn’t even hurt.”

“Right.”

She laughed but it was mirthless, her grin forced, shining teeth clenched together, and Gilbert felt the air expel from his lungs, knocked straight out of his chest, as he realised Anne was a little broken. She was broken, just like him.

Sure, she laughed. She was happy and teasing. She was angry and then sad. And she was broken. She wore a mask; her face like the delicate ceramic of a porcelain doll, cracks threading over the surface, through the staring eyes and painted pink cheeks, and she was liable to break soon. But he would be there, molten gold ready to piece her back together again, fixing her shard by shard until she was a beautiful piece of Kintsugi pottery; more valuable for all that had broken her.

“Look at her, up there in the sky, glowing down on all of us. I love the night, you know. I think everything feels more magical at night.” She stretched upwards, her hands twisting gracefully as the moonbeams danced over her skin. Gilbert was entranced by her fingers, her delicate wrists. He imagined reaching out to take her hand again, his skin suddenly afire with want for her touch once more; to feel the weight of her hand in his, her palm warm against his own.

He laughed gently, shaking his head as his brow furrowed, mystified by his thoughts. It appeared Anne was right; the glorious moon that hung above them, glowing like a pearl, had cast her spell on him too. He would never have wanted to reach for Anne before, but there was magic in the night; everything awash with silvery light, nature singing a lullaby around them.

He chuckled breathily. “You do _know_ the moon doesn’t glow, right? It just reflects the sun.”

It was pragmatic; a logical explanation. And he needed logic. The enchantment of the night, of Anne’s laughter and how the moon beams waltzed across the earth, the calming peace, would lead him to do something he regretted. To reach for her and draw her against him. To make her believe there were feelings for her hidden in his heart. Feelings he knew weren’t there. It was just the magic of the night.

Anne snorted a laugh, and suddenly the spell was broken. He was laughing with her, not longing for her touch. They were friendly once more, he realised with relief.

“Alright, Bill Nye the science guy! Are you always such an asshole?” she asked, her voice lilting with laughter. He grinned, his smile feeling a little goofy; wide and toothy. I had been a long time since he had grinned like that.

“Only for you, Red.”

“Lucky, lucky me.” Her violet eyes roamed across the sky, down past the house and towards him once more, locking onto his like a magnet. There was something in how she looked at him, as though she could see deeper than the surface. And maybe she could. Maybe she could see he was struggling; that his easy smile was a veneer. His clothes a costume. That he wasn’t sure who he was anymore. Something that he thought he could see in her too, although she kept her secrets guarded closely. Her feelings locked in a fairy-tale tower, waiting for a prince to slay the dragon and uncover the key to her heart. Whoever he may be.

Gilbert stilled at the realisation, the muscles that curved his lips relaxing as his face became serious, his heart constricting in his chest. _Whoever he may be._ What a ridiculous thing to think when he _knew_ who she was looking for. She was looking for him, but he couldn’t give her what she wanted. Not when he had Winnie. Not when she felt about him like she did.

He sat upwards suddenly, needing to break free from her gaze; to not have to look at her. It was all a pantomime; Gilbert the bumbling best friend who led her to the prince. Except they weren’t friends. He wasn’t sure _what_ they were. And he couldn’t start thinking that Anne _liked_ him; that she cared for him even. It would make her disappointment at the end too much. They had to stay distant. _Friendly,_ not friends. This would only last for a summer and next year, when he came home, they would be themselves again. Old classmates. Anne and Gilbert. Gilbert and Anne. Petty arguments and heated fights. That was what they were meant to be.

He searched around him, seeking a distraction from his thoughts. From the feeling like they were about to crash; a steam engine racing forward, smoke billowing from the chimney, brakes squealing as it met a break in the tracks, tumbling head on until it landed in the canyon below, nothing but smoke and fire and ash.

His eyes landed on the house before them, the windows cracked and the paint peeling. The walls tumbling down under the weight of the roof, a great gaping hole visible where the tiles had slipped after years of neglect, the beams caving in.

“So, what is it about this place?” he asked, staring forward still but aware that she was moving beside him; that she was sitting up, pulling the skirt of her dress over her knees as she cuddled them to her chest.

“What do you mean?” she questioned, glancing towards him, her eyes tracing the curve of his jaw as he sat beside her in profile, his gaze fixed ahead determinedly.

“This place,” he explained, glancing towards her briefly before snapping his eyes away again, his hand closing over a fistful of grass and tugging it roughly from the earth. “You said it was your thinking spot. Why?”

Anne watched as his fingers unfurled, the grass locked in his clutches free falling from his grasp, twisting and turning as it pirouetted through the breeze. She tugged his jacket around herself, agitating his scent, a waft of sea salt and citrus, the peppery smell of oak and leather filling her nostrils. She turned towards the house, sighing as she eyed its dilapidated exterior.

“I told you,” she began. “It has the best view of the stars.”

“The stars aren’t here all the time,” he coaxed with a smile that Anne returned. She had never told anyone about how much she loved here before. Her thinking spot. An oasis that she escaped to when life overwhelmed her, Anne collapsing back in the grass, hidden from the rest of Avonlea. It was like stepping back in time; suddenly she was a young girl in the 1800’s, finding stories and adventure around her. This house, the garden, it filled Anne’s head with stories. Tales of tragical romances and fleeting first kisses. Of newlyweds, the groom sweeping his bride off her feet and carrying her across the threshold. It felt like the past and the future all in one place and Anne loved the old house dearly.

“I don’t know.” Anne shrugged, suddenly feeling foolish at having to verbalise what the meadow meant to her. The plans she had for the farmhouse.

“There must be some reason,” Gilbert prompted, laughing lightly and his gaze shifted, moving from the front of the house and towards Anne, his eyes alight, glinting like gold in the cast of the moon. She felt bewitched by them, understanding why people had gold fever. His gaze felt like a rush; like magic. Something she needed more of. She tore her eyes from him, her brow furrowed at where those odd thoughts had emerged from. This was _Gilbert Blythe_ ; not some romantic hero who would be hers in the end. She didn’t even like him. She cast her eyes skyward, cursing the moon for the tricks she played in the low light.

“Alright. I’ve never told anyone this before.” Anne shifted slightly on the grass, readjusting herself to sit cross-legged, facing him as she spoke. “Do you ever have a dream and it’s so stupid and unrealistic, but you dream it anyway?”

Her face appeared in his mind and he felt himself startle at the unexpected intrusion. Her. Her friendship. He wanted that at one stage. He still did sometimes.

“Yes.”

“Well, this house? That’s that dream for me.” She sighed, staring towards the front-door; the hinges rusty and the paint peeling. “But you have to look past the exterior. See it for what it could be and not what it is.”

“And what do you see it as?” His voice was low and rasping, almost a whisper in the night, and she felt a tingle zing across her flesh. She drew the jacket around her once more. It was just the chill of the night air.

“I see it as a home,” she replied, laughing at how ridiculous she sounded. The majority of people would want it torn down; believe it to be an eye-sore in the picturesque town. “Can you imagine it? The walls would be painted cream and the windows and doors duck-egg blue. And over there,” she pointed towards the side of the house, a glass panelled lean-to slanting unsteadily against the gable wall, “I would grow all sorts of vegetables. Tomatoes and carrots and…and...”

“Mangoes?” Gilbert suggested. Anne’s brow furrowed.

“Mangoes?”

“I’m partial to a mango.”

“And what makes you think you’d be visiting my house, Gilbert Blythe?” she teased.

He laughed, shrugging nonchalantly. “Maybe I could visit if I was in town.”

“I’d have to think about that,” Anne mused. “I’m still not sure if I like you or not yet.”

“I would expect nothing less,” he nodded, nudging lightly into Anne with his shoulder. Her hand found the place his t-shirt touched. It wasn’t warm, the contact so fleeting, but she felt heat radiate from it. “What else?”

“What else?” she puzzled, distracted by the butterflies that beat in her stomach. She was unsure why they were there. She wasn’t at all nervous.

“In your house.” He smiled at her encouragingly.

“Oh. Oh, of course.” She released her hands from where they clasped around her knees, pointing towards the trees. “I’d have a picnic bench there, with a gingham tablecloth, and I’d take my kids out there for picnics when the weather was nice. There would be loads of room for them to play.”

Gilbert smiled, picturing a little red-headed toddler lollop across the grass, a girl about Dellie’s age with dark curly hair bounding after him, Anne laughing gaily as they dance around the lawn.

“And I’d plant flowers everywhere. A bed by the window and another along the path. I think it would bring the place to life again. And I’d plant a lilac tree by the door. How romantic would it be, waving your husband off to work under the bough of a lilac tree?”

“Not lilac,” Gilbert interjected as Anne sighed dreamily beside him, lost in her fantasy of domestic bliss. “Wisteria. A huge, purple wisteria plant.”

Anne stared at him. Wisteria. Devotion. She wondered if he knew that or if he just liked the plant. “Wisteria,” she agreed. “That would be beautiful.”

He smiled at her, an easy sort of smile that made her stomach feel gooey, like it was chocolate on a hot day, melting down into something smooth and sweet. She smiled back, the air around her feeling charged suddenly, heavy and serious. Talking to him about this made it feel _real._ She felt like it wasn’t a fantasy, this huge farmhouse with its large sash windows and path that led to the cliff face, winding around the coast. It felt like a home. A home filled with love and laughter and happiness. With cheerful children and a dog with a wagging tail; with a man with dark curls and hazel eyes and warm hands. A man that looked like…

“I wonder where Roy is?” Anne mused, her words jumbled and rushed.

“Roy?”

“Well, he’s next on the list, isn’t he?”

Gilbert eyebrows raised, curving upwards, his lips parting slightly. He felt like he had been slapped; as though Anne had brought the tray across his face once more, knocking any sense from his brain. Here he was, imagining what it would be like in that big house when she was dreaming of a future with someone else. So was he, he reminded himself. There was still a little gold band with an emerald stone hidden in his room. “You’re right. He is.”

“So, he’s the next person we look for.” She nodded determinedly, glancing back at the house.

“If you wish.” Gilbert clambered to his feet, reaching his hand out towards her. “Let’s go home, Red.”

Anne glanced at the house once more, and then at his hand, taking it in hers and allowing him to haul her to her feet. He brushed down his jeans and began walking towards the car, Anne two steps behind him. She glanced back at the house. It was strange, but the man in her fantasy, the man with his hands on her waist, pressing a kiss to her neck as she stood over the stove, she could have sworn he had looked like Gilbert.

**********

It was quiet in the Blythe-Lacroix house; the type of silence that descends with nightfall. The warble of childish chatter replaced by the hum of the lights. The patter of little feet against the floorboards silent, the gurgle of the central heating audible as it warmed the radiators. Mary sat on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor, a plastic stick in her hand as she glanced towards the watch she had laid beside her. Not even a minute had passed yet but she was growing impatient.

She didn’t know what had put the thought into her head. She didn’t feel like she had the first two times. She was a lot more uncomfortable and was in a considerable amount of pain she had never experienced before, but there were signs too obvious to ignore. Relentless nausea and fatigue, a missed period that she was unable to explain away. She had found herself standing underneath the fluorescent lights of the pharmacy in Carmody, perusing a display of pink and blue boxes covered in smiling faces and plus signs, lifting one box and reading it distractedly before replacing it and lifting another. She sighed. It didn’t matter really which she chose; they would all tell her the same thing. A positive or a negative; that was all she needed.

She tapped the test against her palm anxiously, glancing at her watch once more as she listened to the sound of Bash moving around downstairs, the low rumble of the television and the thud of his socked feet against the bare floorboards audible as he moved from one room to another. He should have been upstairs with her but she didn’t want to annoy him with a negative test result. They had done everything as a team but recently that had shifted; Bash having to play mummy and daddy to their children when she felt too unwell to drag herself from her bed or their couch. She knew he was stressed, he wasn’t good at hiding it; the circles under his eyes darker, his shoulders stiff with tension after a long day spent in the orchard under the blistering July sun before coming home to prepare dinner and commandeer bath-time or play dress-up, wrestling his children into their pyjamas and tucking them into bed. Mary felt sick with guilt; he carried a lot on his shoulders and she knew getting his hopes up by informing him of her suspicions to only have them dashed with a negative result was another burden she didn’t feel he needed to shoulder.

They had waited a while for Dellie; two years to be exact, Mary crying after another single blue line appeared indicating they weren’t yet pregnant as Bash drew her close to him, whispering, “Maybe it’s time we look into something else?” And just as they had begun to think about their options; fostering or adoption, IVF, Mary had missed a period. They were both delighted with the news, Bash calling Dellie his “little miracle”, with Elijah following a few years after. They had decided then to stop putting so much pressure on themselves. They had two beautiful, healthy children; many couples weren’t as lucky, but as she curled her knees to her chest with the test on the floor beside her, Mary couldn’t help but wish that two blue lines would appear. A positive; some good news to reassure her that how she felt was only a severe case of morning sickness and nothing else. Soon she would be over the worst of it.

She glanced at the watch again, humming to herself as she counted down the seconds in her head. Two minutes would end in; _ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five…_

Mary squeezed her eyes shut as she unfurled her fingers from around the white plastic, raising it to eye level before allowing her eyes to flutter open, stars flashing before them as she readjusted to the bright lights that flooded the room. She squinted at the panel, her heart soaring as she saw two blue lines. Pregnant. She was _pregnant!_ Nothing untoward, nothing sinister; just a little life growing inside of her.

She laughed breathily as she clambered to her feet slowly, her fingers clutching onto the countertop as she eased herself off the floor, attempting to prevent any sudden movements that would cause her any pain.

She washed her hands, grinning at her reflection in the mirror, turning sideways and running her hand across her stomach. It was fuller than it had been when she first met Bash, her flesh softer and streaked with deep, purplish lines that Bash called her “battle scars” when she complained about them, pressing open mouthed kisses against her skin until she was giggling.

She smiled at her reflection, the eyes that stared back at her from the mirror hanging over the bathroom sink dancing with joy. Her fingers traced along her lower stomach, a safe vessel for a little human to grow.

“Hello baby,” she whispered into the quiet of the room, the silence punctuated by the thud of feet climbing the stairs and pacing the landing, stopping outside the door. There was a knock, Bash’s knuckles rapping quietly against the wooden panel.

“Mary?” he whispered, a thump as his head fell against the door. “Are you alright?”

Mary smiled as she glanced at the locked door, imagining Bash standing outside it, his eyes sorrowful, his mouth set. His shoulders would be tense, raised towards his ears as a frown etched across his brow; his worry for her evident from one glance. She pictured how it would melt, the pained expression of concern dissolving into a wide grin and fluttering butterfly kisses as she told him the news. She rushed forward, unable to keep the news from him any longer. To rid their house of sickness and fill it with joy instead.

She fumbled at the lock, whipping the door open hastily, Bash standing straight on the other side.

“Why, hello there,” he laughed, his eyebrows curved comically at her sudden unveiling. “I thought I’d check on you.”

“I’m fine,” she replied, smiling coyly as she reached for the test that lay upon the counter, her fingers closing around it. “In fact, I’m better than fine.”

“You are?” he questioned with a laugh; his face puzzled. Mary felt herself fizzle with excitement, her blood bubble as it raced through her. He would be ecstatic. She knew he would.

She took his hand in hers, turning it so the palm faced upwards, her finger delicately tracing along the lines there. “Close your eyes,” she ordered.

“Alright, bossy,” he laughed, feeling a little foolish as he closed his eyes, unsure of what was about to happen or why there was a sudden change in his wife. She been pale and sickly the past few weeks; weak and tired. He had been so worried. Gilbert had too, both of them sharing whispered conversations in the kitchen about how they should contact a doctor because it had lingered longer than any excuse she gave them could have. It wasn’t a stomach bug, nor a pulled muscle. And Gilbert, as much as Bash loved him, hadn’t made it any easier, hissing words that made Bash quake with fear. _Sepsis_ or _cancer. Liver disease._ Things that could claim her life if she remained too proud to go to a doctor, swatting Gilbert’s hands away anytime he offered to look.

Bash nibbled at his lip nervously, feeling Mary’s mouth against his palm, her breath hot as she pressed a close-mouthed kiss to his skin, before the heat of her breath was replaced with something cool and hard, Mary curling his fingers around the new object and cupping his closed fist in her hands.

“Like I said, I’m better than fine,” she whispered as his eyes fluttered open, eyeing the object in his hands with a bewildered furrow to his brow. “I’m pregnant, Bash.”

The words echoed around the silent hall, bouncing against the walls and reverberating back to them, Bash still as his mind attempted to process the information. Pregnant? But that couldn’t be. She was sick; he was worried. Was it possible, after all this time, there was nothing to worry about? Just another little Lacroix. Another person to love dearly.

He stared at the test in his hand, two blue stripes marked clearly on the panel. He swallowed thickly, a lump swelling in his throat, tears pooling along his lashes.

“Pregnant?” he asked, his voice breathless, lilting like a joyful song. “You’re – you’re pregnant?”

Mary nodded, her heart exploding with happiness as Bash whooped joyfully, sweeping her into his arms unexpectedly, Mary stumbling back into the bathroom, her feet grazing the floor. She laughed as he hugged her close, chastising him with a sharp “Shh”, her finger pressed against her lips as he lowered her to her feet again.

“Mary, I can’t believe this! I can’t – How did you…?” He laughed, his eyes glassy with unshed tears as his hand found his forehead, his fingers pushing through his hair roughly. “I don’t know what to say!”

“Say you’re happy, Mr Lacroix. I only want you to be happy.”

“Happy?” He laughed disbelievingly, a large tear breaking free from the dam his lashes created, rolling across the curve of his cheek. He dashed it away with the back of his hand. “Mary, I’m delighted. I couldn’t be happier.”

Another tear rolled forth, spilling from his waterline and across his skin, carving out a path on his face like a riverbed. Mary cupped his cheek in her hand, Bash nuzzling into it as she wiped the tear from his face with the pad of her thumb, her own lip wobbling with emotion; with excitement and relief. With the look of pure love and adoration that spilled from Bash’s eyes and washed over her, warming her through. She was safe. She would always be safe with him.

“I’m so glad,” she replied, but the words felt weighted. She was gladdened by more than the little life inside her. She was glad she met Bash, that he stumbled into her drunk at the bar she used to work in, his flirtations unrelenting until she gave in and agreed to a date. She was glad that they had brought children into the world together, thankful for the temper tantrums as well as the cuddles. She was glad she had Gilbert, patient and caring. He was a steadying presence in their house, there for Bash when she couldn’t be. And she was glad for herself. She was healthy; she had nothing to fear and everything to live for; months of first kicks and listening to a new heartbeat; finding little hand on a sonogram stretching before her.

“So am I.” Bash rested his forehead against hers, his hands gentle on her waist. “So unbelievably glad.”

Mary pushed herself up on tiptoe, winding her arms around his neck as she closed the gap between them, her lips meshing with his in a kiss of happiness and relief, tinged with the taste of salty tears. Mary could feel Bash smile against her lips as her fingers threaded into the short curls at the back of his neck, twirling coils of his hair around her fingers. And as though her touch had alighted a fire in Bash, his arms tightened around her, pressing her flush to his body as their kisses deepened. She laughed as he hoisted her from the floor, spinning them towards the door, Mary’s back bumping against the bathroom cabinet as Bash attempted to negotiate them across the tiles and towards their bedroom.

They broke apart, Mary laughing as Bash cursed under his breath.

“Sorry,” he laughed, his mouth meeting hers again as her feet found the floor. They tumbled across the tiles, Mary tugging at Bash’s sweater as he pressed her against the doorjamb, her hands untucking his t-shirt from his jeans eagerly. He laughed as she grinned up at him coyly, but his hands shot out to still hers.

“Mary are you sure?” he asked. “You haven’t been well and…”

She silenced him with a kiss, drawing his face to hers with her hands, and Bash groaned as her tongue parted his lips, Mary swallowing the sound with her kiss.

His hands found her waist once more, ready to move them, stumbling across the dark stained floor and to their room across the hall, when the sound of a car door slamming shut stopped them, Bash’s head dropping to Mary’s shoulder as he emitted a frustrated groan.

“I swear to God, that kid’s timing is abysmal,” he grumbled, laughing as Mary hummed her agreement. He drew back from her as Gilbert’s keys rattled in the front door, Mary hastily fixing her t-shirt after Bash had tugged at the neckline, exposing a shoulder.

“To be continued?” she asked as Gilbert’s feet raced up the stairs a song on his lips; _The Tragically Hip,_ Bash recognised.

“To be continued,” he agreed. Gilbert rounded the banister onto the landing, stopping abruptly when he spotted them, his eyes dancing and his skin flushed.

“Hi,” he whispered. “I saw the lights off and didn’t think anyone was still up.”

“We’re still here,” Bash chuckled, gesturing between him and Mary as Gilbert moved up the landing towards where they stood in the doorway of the bathroom.

“What’s up?” he asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. There was something different about them tonight. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it but it felt joyful. “What are you doing in the bath…,” he paused, reddening at the flush to Bash’s cheeks and the swelling of Mary’s lips. “You know what? That’s none of my business.”

Bash chuckled as he moved around them with a wide berth like they had the plague and he was wary of catching it.

“How was your night?” Bash asked in an attempt to ease his brother’s awkwardness, Mary blushing bright red, her face burrowing into her hands at Gilbert’s embarrassment.

“Terrible,” he answered over his shoulder, before he stilled, spinning towards them, a flicker of a smile crossing his face. “And then - good.”

“I see,” Bash answered, unsure what to make of Gilbert’s answer. He looked lighter to Bash; happier. There was something in how his brow was relaxed and his curls slightly mussed by the night air that made him look younger; like a schoolboy again, his life at his feet. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“More than some,” Gilbert answered, grinning cheekily as he eyed them both pointedly. “I’m away to bed. Keep,” he gestured between them, “doing whatever you were doing, I suppose.”

He turned from them away, Mary’s face flushing the colour of a beet as Gilbert called over his shoulder, “But maybe keep it down.”

Bash watched as his frame was swallowed by the darkness of the hall, a song in his voice once more, the tune so recognisable to Bash as he hummed it. Bash glanced at Mary, his brows rounding with a question as Gilbert’s bedroom door closed.

“Does he seem _different_ to you?”

“He seems lighter,” Mary agreed. “Maybe Anne is a good influence on him.”

They both laughed as Mary’s hands slipped up Bash’s arms, sliding tantalisingly across his shoulders and resting against his neck.

“Maybe she is,” Bash reiterated. “We’ll hope she sticks around a bit longer. He’s not such a misery-guts anymore.”

“You know I can hear you,” Gilbert called from his room, causing Mary to snort loudly.

“Mr Lacroix,” she whispered, “Shall we take this to the bedroom?”

“We shall, my angel.”

Down the hall, Gilbert moved across the floorboards, his room deathly silent except for the springs that squeaked in his mattress as he sat on the edge of his bed. He ran his hand through his hair, the strands thick with product in an attempt to keep it styled in the way Winnie liked it. He sighed, ruffling the curls with his fingers, chocolate coils springing free from the confines of the pomade. He allowed himself to collapse backwards, shutting his eyes tightly as he dragged his palm over his face, a song on his lips as he began to quietly hum ‘ _Ahead by a Century’_ once more, his mouth quirking into a small smile as he reflected on his night. Of Anne and the stars and the old house in the meadow. He felt like they had taken a step forward tonight. She had opened up to him; told him something she had never disclosed to anyone else. He found himself wishing for more moments like that; where her voice was breathless with excitement, her eyes dancing in her head, filled with visions for her future.

It sounded like a dream; a cereal-box family. Anne and her husband; happy little children playing on the lawn. A robin’s egg blue door and a greenhouse filled with vegetables. He smiled as he imagined Anne, a wide brimmed sunhat on her head as she leant over the flowerbeds, trowel in hand as she wrestled with a weed. He imagined himself reaching out, his hand flattening against something cool and clear. A pane of glass.

His eyes snapped open, throwing himself forward as he hacked a cough, his body starved from oxygen; no air left in his lungs. He had been inside Anne’s house. Why had he been in Anne’s house? Her little house she filled with her dreams.

He glanced at his watch. It was late and he should have called Winnie tonight. She wouldn’t be too happy with him in the morning. He pushed himself upright, undoing his laces and kicking his converse across the floor before standing. He paced across the room, dragging his t-shirt off over his head and smiling when the movement released the faintest trace of meadow flowers and lichens and air tinged with sea salt from the fibres.

Anne.

***********

The office of _The Avonlea Gazette_ was hot, swelteringly so; the air sticky and still, despite the windows being thrust wide and the door to the street being propped open by an old fire extinguisher Charlie had unearthed from behind the filing cabinet. They had spent the morning distracted by the heat, unproductive and unable to form coherent words despite Ted applying pressure to have their articles completed. Charlie had been in a foul mood, the heat exaggerating his grouchiness, each grumble and mutter and sigh irking Anne until she eventually exploded as he rose from his seat to move the fan closer to his desk.

“Don’t even think about it, Charlie,” she said crossly as he attempted to drag the fan closer to where his desk sat, its feet snagging on the threadbare carpet. “You sit closer to the door than me so I need the fan more than you.”

“I’m sweltering.”

“We’re _all_ sweltering, thank you very much. Stop being such a baby.”

“A _baby?_ You’re the one arguing like a kid!”

“How about we move it into the middle,” Ka’kwet suggested, ever the mediator, “and we’ll switch on the oscillation so we _all_ get a little bit of fresh air.”

Charlie and Anne had both agreed, Charlie somewhat begrudgingly, and Ka’kwet dragged the whirring fan into the centre of the room, it’s head rotating to and fro, ruffling papers and cooling the editorial team with each twist until Ted strode from his office, his shirt dishevelled, buttons tugged open and his sleeves rolled up, dark blue stains where he was sweating profusely. He grabbed at the fan, yanking forcefully until the plug was torn from the socket, and dragged it bad into his office, Anne, Ka’kwet and Charlie watching open mouthed as he slammed the door shut behind him, the distinctive sound of whirring audible from behind the door. Anne could picture him, collar undone as he lay back in his chair, his bare feet propped on the table, a draft of Anne’s latest editorial piece that he never planned to read in his hand, its only purpose to cool his face, flapping wildly as he fanned himself, his sweaty fingers smudging the ink of the words she so lovingly penned.

“I’m going out for lunch,” she announced, the thought of staying another second inside the stuffy interior of her office unbearable. She lifted her lunch bag from where she stashed it beneath her desk and traipsed up the stairs to buy a cool drink from the vending machine on the top floor, kicking at it frustratedly when the machine swallowed her shining coin and stopped before her drink hit the tray below. It jolted, the silver coil that kept her desired can in place moving slowly, slowly, until her _Diet Coke_ tumbled downwards, Anne retrieving it was a satisfied smile before bounding down the stairs and out onto the street, perching on the kerb outside; the slab stones of the pavement hot against her bare legs.

She never strayed too far when she left the office for lunch, usually taking her salad to the pavement outside the door or across to the park where she could watch all of Avonlea bustle by; Mrs Lynde usually hurrying past, a bag filled with fresh berries to make jam and a gossip magazine to read while her preserve bubbled on the stovetop. Mr Sloane often passed this time of the day, out for his daily walk, usually looping Avonlea six times, tipping his trilby hat to Anne each time with a cheerful, “Hello, young lady.” Charlie informed them it was doctor’s orders after the mild heart attack his father had suffered in the spring but Anne suspected it was to get away from the formidable Mrs Sloane; a short, fat woman with a grumpy temperament. Despite Charlie’s physical resemblance to his father, he had inherited his mother’s personality; gloomy and sniping.

She watched as the secretary to the town council rushed through the streets, no doubt late to return from her lunch break. She pitied her. The men on the council had a reputation for being unreasonable and no doubt she would face their wrath when she reached her desk inside.

The sound of footsteps distracted her from her people-watching, Ka’kwet stepping onto the road beside her before settling onto the kerb.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked. “I’m not sure I can withstand much more of Charlie’s complaining.”

Anne sniggered as Ka’kwet’s features morphed into a sorrowful expression, her voice low and slow as she mocked him. “It is _impossible_ to get anything done today. I’m just _too_ hot.”

Anne laughed. “What a baby! Maybe if he took off his cardigan.”

“I know!” Ka’kwet cried, shaking her head in annoyance as she lifted her tin lunchbox onto her knees, opening the lid peering inside. “I _did_ suggest that but apparently he’d rather be hot and grumpy.”

“Sounds like a casting call for any Mr Darcy ever,” Anne thought aloud, laughing as Ka’kwet rounded on her, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What?” Anne puzzled.

“You and _Charlie?”_ Ka’kwet questioned disbelievingly and Anne chuckled as she realised what she had insinuated through her remark. That Charlie was capable of being some romantic lead; suave and debonair. And impossible. Charlie Sloane was sorrowful and tetchy and would be _someone’s_ romantic lead, but certainly not Anne’s.

“No,” Anne clarified hastily, before adding, “I think he’d be more like the Mr Collins in this scenario.”

Ka’kwet snorted loudly, her hand clamping over her mouth to prevent the water she had just drank from spitting forward through her pursed lips. Anne chuckled ruefully, snapping the cool can that sat at her side open with a satisfying hiss and taking a cooling drink.

“Did you do anything fun over the weekend?” she asked, listening with interest as Ka’kwet detailed what she had done. Ka’kwet was a free spirit, living her life with no inhibitions. Anne wished she lived like her, with no care for what others thought. Her long ebony hair was always streaked with bright colours; turquoise or hot-pink, deep reds and purples, and she dressed in patterned trousers with wide legs and loose fitting-tops, like she stepped straight out of a copy of a 1970’s _Bida_ catalogue. Her kohled eyes danced in her head as she shared stories of her weekend; of her wacky friends and the parties they attended, drinking and dancing on the beach on Friday night, a lock-in rave on Saturday, Ka’kwet eventually emerging back into the sun late on Sunday afternoon, dizzy and dehydrated after a long night of dancing.

“And did you _meet_ anyone?” Anne prompted, smirking suggestively as Ka’kwet blushed prettily.

“No-one _serious_ ,” she replied. “But was there a little fumble in the dark? _Maybe.”_

Anne’s hand clasped at her chest in mock horror. “You scoundrel, you!”

The girls chuckled, lapsing into silence again as they watched Mrs Barry hurry down the opposite side of the street, Mr Barry rolling his eyes as he followed her, his hands deep in the pockets of his summer jacket.

“What about you?” Ka’kwet quizzed, lifting a forkful of spiced rice to her mouth. “Did you do anything fun?”

Ka’kwet asked Anne this every week but Anne never knew why. Her answer was usually always the same. _Nothing!_ A concise way of Anne detailing that her life was _very_ dull; _Golden Girls_ re-runs with Marilla and another episode of _The Great British Bake Off._ Maybe a visit to Diana’s. She would do some washing and tidying, read another book. Never anything _wild_ or unpredictable or remotely fun. This weekend, however, was the exception.

“I had a date, actually,” she admitted shyly, blushing as Ka’kwet smacked at her arm in surprise.

“You never said!”

“I wasn’t expecting it!”

Anne thought back to her and Gilbert in Billy’s office, Anne’s knee bouncing nervously as she was called to go see him. His shark-like smile, circling his prey as he asked her on a date. There had been warning signs in his smile. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t noticed.

“Was it a letter boy?” Ka’kwet pried. She was twisted towards Anne, her interest in the topic piqued.

“It was.” Anne ducked her head, drawing shapes onto the pavement with her finger. “But it didn’t go _well,_ exactly.”

“And, why was that?”

Anne sighed, curling her knees to her chest and resting her chin on top of them. How did you detail that your date went terribly because he kissed you when you didn’t want him too and then attempted to drug your drink?

“It just… We didn’t – click?”

“And is that what you’re looking for? A click?”

“Isn’t that what everyone is looking for?” Anne mused with a sheepish laugh. Ka’kwet nodded, her lips pursed as she thought.

“And what is a click meant to feel like?” she asked eventually.

Anne shrugged. “I guess it’s meant to feel – _comfortable._ A familiarity that you didn’t realise you had. It’s meant to feel…”

She paused, her brow furrowing at the face that had unexpectedly appeared in her mind; caramel gold eyes and chocolate curls, high cheekbones illuminated in the starlight. Anne felt herself heat, a warmth radiating from the inside out; a flush blazing a trail up her neck and across her cheekbones. She lifted her drink, pressing the cool can against her neck as she glanced skyward, looking for the cloud that must have moved from before the sun, allowing more sunrays to shine down like laser beams and heat the earth and all on it, but to her surprise, the sky was cloudless.

“It’s meant to feel?” Ka’kwet prompted. Her face bore a puzzled expression as she watched Anne pale, quite the opposite of what a red head was _supposed_ to do in the sun.

“I don’t know,” Anne replied, smiling tightly at her friend. “I still haven’t met him yet.”

Ka’kwet let out a long breath, a dreamy smile on her face. “It’s all so romantic, isn’t it? Imagine having someone out there, the love of your life, who has already communicated something so _beautiful_ with you, but you have no clue what he looks like.”

Anne laughed breathily, although it sounded flat to her own ears. Forced and unsure. Ka’kwet was right, she wasn’t sure what he looked like, but over-time she was starting to build an image of him in her head. It was foggy, unclear, but she could see his eyes. Mischievous and twinkling. Warm and inviting. Eyes as indulgent as rich, golden caramel. She wondered what Roy’s eyes looked like. She could barely remember.

“I suppose we need to get back,” Anne sighed, zipping her lunch box and getting back to her feet. “I don’t imagine Ted will be too happy if we go over the ‘designated half an hour lunch break.’” She rolled her eyes, imagining him thrusting the staff Code of Conduct under her nose like he had countless times before, _‘ALL STAFF MUST ADHERE TO THE DESIGNATED HALF AN HOUR LUNCH BREAK’_ circled in red marker.

Ka’kwet clambered to her feet, walking back to the office at Anne’s side. “Was your date fun though? Despite not _clicking?_ ”

Anne pondered on her question. It hadn’t been fun and then it had. She loved to star-gaze near her dream house, out in the meadow, and it felt nice to have someone there with her. To invite someone into her space and allow them to share it. She felt the corner of her lips twitch upwards, curving into a smile.

“I suppose it was.”

“You should keep a journal,” Ka’kwet suggested, dropping her tin onto her desk and collapsing back into her seat, already fatigued from the intense heat of the room. “A little note of your journey. It would be funny for him to read, I’m sure. You know, when you meet him.”

Anne shrugged, smiling at her friend as she remembered Billy quoting _Hamlet_ and mistaking it for a teenaged rom-com. “Maybe I will.”

She turned back to her screen, the curser still blinking at her expectantly but her thoughts were unordered. Jumbled after her discussion about the love letter; flashing with images of insistent hands and fizzing drinks and glimmering stars and kind eyes. Slightly crooked bottom teeth in a wide grin.

She shook her head, opening her browser and typing a name into it. There was no point reflecting on the past; it wasn’t Billy. Onwards. She had to keep moving.

 _Royal Gardner._ Enter.

And suddenly her screen was filled with images of a handsome man with dark eyes, black hair cut bluntly at chin length, a slight wave to it. Roy partying with beautiful models. Roy posing for a magazine. Roy in dark jeans, his smooth chest exposed as he flexed towards the camera. Roy’s modelling agency number. Social media pages. A fan page dedicated to him. And then an article, Anne noting the date it was posted and clicking into it.

_‘Toronto Elite to Attend Charity Party this Weekend’_

Anne scrolled through the story, stopping eventually when she spotted his name; ‘ _Fresh-faced starlets Winifred Rose, Royal Gardner and Jacob King are amongst the star-studded guestlist.’_

She grinned, her heart beating wildly in her chest with excitement at having located him so easily. She even knew where he would be on Saturday night!

She reached for her phone, instinctively punching a number into it, listening with bated breath as it rang. He answered on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi!”

“You’ll never believe this, but I was just thinking of you.” He laughed, the sound deep and rich as he breathed down the phone. Anne felt her heart skip, the rhythm altering unexpectedly.

“You were?”

“Well, uhm… Yeah.” He sounded unsure and Anne could picture him, his brow furrowed, knitted together like it so often was. “I – I was just hoping you were okay.”

“I see.” The silence stretched between them; Anne unsure how to proceed. She was touched that he was thinking off her; shocked that he cared enough to. They were fumbling, finding their footing on whatever journey they were embarking on together, but she never imagined they would reach a point where Gilbert Blythe would think of her whilst he was alone. Sitting at home with her on his mind. She smiled. “I have some news.”

“And what’s that?”

“I found Roy,” she announced excitedly. She could hear Gilbert inhale sharply down the line.

“You did?” he asked, his voice slow, his words deliberate.

“Yes. He’s far away. Toronto, to be exact. But we could travel there. He’s going to be at a party at the weekend. Some charity thing and maybe we could crash…”

Anne paused, her eyes scanning the guest list a second time. ‘ _Fresh-faced starlets Winifred Rose…’_

“Wait, Winnie is going,” she reiterated from the screen.

“Winnie?” He sounded puzzled, the name seeming to go over his head; no note of recognition in his voice. Anne realised he barely spoke about her. She had never heard her name on his lips.

“Yes, _Winnie.”_ She emphasised her words as though she was speaking to a child. “You know, your super famous, celebrity girlfriend.” She chuckled awkwardly as Gilbert rambled on the other end of the phone.

“…Oh, Winnie. _My_ Winnie. Sure, I – I was unsure who you meant.”

Anne puzzled at the pang in her chest, glancing towards her lunchbox and wondering if she had given herself indigestion. She swallowed, his words echoing in her head. _His_ Winnie. She nibbled at her lip, her teeth pressing into the flesh so sharply she was sure she had broken skin.

“One and the same,” she replied with a grimace, forcing the words out in a lilting, laughing voice.

“And how are you suggesting we get to Toronto. Fly?”

Anne’s hand smacked against her forehead; her eyes screwed tight. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Toronto was _miles_ away. Hours. _A full day._ And she couldn’t afford a flight. She could barely afford a coffee in the morning. But maybe…?

“I thought we could drive?”

“Drive?” His tone was teasing. “Drive the whole way to Toronto? And who is going to have to do this driving?”

“We could share!”

“You don’t drive, Red.”

“But I can. I’m just a little out of practice.”

“Red…”

“I can. I swear!” she maintained good-naturedly.

“Fine.”

“I ca – Fine?” She paused, the childish argument dying on her lips.

“Sure. Fine. Look, if it means so much to you, I’ll drive. We’re a team, right?”

Anne felt unsure of what to say. They were a team, but it felt like he made more sacrifices than her; giving up free time to drive her. Patiently putting up with her requests; be near her when she wanted him to. Be far when she asked. She thought it would prove a difficult task to convince him to drive her. She didn’t want to admit defeat; that she was broke, a plane ticket too expensive for her meagre wages to cover. A train ticket similarly so. This way, they split the cost. It was economical; pragmatic. Maybe he thought that too. “Right.”

“So, we’ll leave when? Friday morning to be there for Saturday afternoon? That’ll give us time to stop somewhere for a sleep on the way.”

“Sure. That sounds good.” She scribbled a note to herself on a post-it, her phone lodged between her shoulder and her ear. ‘ _Phone in sick on Friday.’_ She tore if from the top of the pad and stuck it into her notebook, snapping it shut.

“Alright. I’ll call Winnie and ask her to make up the spare room.”

It was Anne’s turn to puzzle over the name. “Winnie?”

She had forgotten that Winnie would be there; that it wouldn’t just be her and Gilbert and maybe Roy. That their two was turning into a four and Anne was about to come face-to-face with another Gilbert. City Gilbert, with a flashy city apartment and a glamorous girlfriend.

“Yeah,” he teased. “You know my ‘ _super famous, celebrity girlfriend.’”_ He laughed but it sounded hollow; deep and chortling but empty. Devoid of that magical quality that made Anne fight the way her lips quirked instinctively; ready to stretch into a smile.

“Oh her? I’m surprised you remembered who she was,” she joked, but her voice was dull. She was going to meet Winnie. The girl who grinned from the photograph on the kitchen wall in the Blythe-Lacroix home. The girl who pouted from the pictures Ruby thrust under Anne’s phone, remarking on how stylish she was, and how _beautiful._ And she was. Anne couldn’t deny that. She was terribly plain in comparison. Wretched freckles and horrid red hair. Her eyes too large and her mouth too wide.

She hung up, telling Gilbert she would see him Friday before dropping her phone to her desk, typing a new name into her browser.

 _Winifred Rose._ Enter.

A multitude of articles appeared. Charity events. Galas. Balls. She was a philanthropist. A socialite; her parents old-money types. Anne sighed, clicking into images and startling when she saw him smiling out of her computer screen.

‘ _Winifred Rose with boyfriend Gilbert Blythe.’_ Gilbert dressed in a neat dark suit, Winnie beside him in a cream dress decorated in burgundy roses.

 _‘Winifred Rose and boyfriend Gilbert Blythe go for a run.’_ And there he was in running gear, his brow furrowed as he stared straight into the camera, his mouth set in a tight line as Winnie grinned beside him.

‘ _Who is Dr Gilbert Blythe? All we know on the aspiring surgeon who has captured Winifred Rose’s heart.’_ Anne stared at the image of him, his hand in Winnie’s as she strode ahead of him, parading through the paparazzi who crowded the doorway of the nightclub they had attended. Winnie was confident, her head thrown back, a mega-watt smile to her face, but he shrunk from the cameras behind her. She felt a stab in her chest as her eyes traced his face. Her eyes were probably playing tricks on her but she thought he looked lost; like he didn’t fit in there, his tailored trousers and crisp shirt and polished brogues so far removed from the Gilbert she had become reacquainted with; faded _Levi’s_ and battered converse. Soft t-shirts and a mid-wash denim jacket that was still lying in her bedroom.

She shook her head, closing the tab and returning to her article. Who was she to make judgements on his life? She was still relearning who he was, surprised to find he wasn’t all she had once thought. But Winnie _knew_ him. Every inch of him, Anne realised with a flush. Her heart knowing what was under the surface, her hands knowing what was on it.

Anne thrust her elbows onto her desk, dragging her fingers through her hair, watching as the curser winked at her on screen.

She sighed. Her hands hovered over her keyboard, ready to type her article on the most economical model of tractors but her mind drew a blank. She didn’t much care for tractors anyway. Instead, her fingers lowered to the keyboard and she began type a heading, bold black lettering filling her screen.

‘ _The Love Letter.’_

And below she began to write the tale of a girl who was lost but was ready to be found. Of a love letter pulled from a childhood treasure chest and an old rival who sometimes felt more like a friend.

**********

The rest of the week passed uneventfully, Friday arriving quickly and Anne finding herself in the front seat of Gilbert’s old car once more, the gears crunching under him as his _converse_ booted foot pressed into the clutch, merging them onto the motorway.

Anne had felt flustered as the day drew nearer, her stomach bubbling with nerves as their trip crept closer. She was worried about what meeting Roy would bring; if her experience with him would be similar to that she had with Billy or if he would be like the Roy she remembered from school. Over eager but kind-hearted. She fretted she hadn’t packed all she needed, filling her case with airy summer dresses to beat the searing heat, her hand lingering over the box of condoms she kept hidden in her underwear drawer, debating whether she would need them or not, before deciding she needed to be prepared for every eventuality and slipping them down the side of her bag. And, although she wasn’t sure why, she felt on edge at the prospect of meeting Winifred Rose. She was sure she would be lovely; kind and sweet and charming, everything Anne imagined the girl who would steal Gilbert’s heart would be, but she had a feeling deep in her belly, a leaden weight that lay in the pit of her stomach, that made her feel nervous. Winnie was beautiful; elegant heart shaped face, and baby blue eyes, her hair a halo of golden curls, and Anne felt dowdy in comparison. Freckled and wretched and plain.

Gilbert had arrived for her a few hours previously, grinning as he hauled her bag into the trunk of his car, Marilla standing on the top step of the porch calling, “She better not come back to me in a body bag, Gilbert Blythe, or I’ll have you in one.”

“Noted.” Gilbert beamed mischievously, a playful twinkle in his eye. “Not a hair on her head will be harmed.”

He held the door for her as she slipped into the passenger seat like he always did, and soon they were off, reversing from the drive and through Avonlea, _The Tragically Hip_ playing softly in the background.

“I’m going to be so sick of this song soon,” Gilbert laughed, eyeing Anne’s hands on her lap, her fingers fidgeting agitatedly, picking at the cuticles around her nails. He smiled at her reassuringly, casting a side-long glance her way. “You’re going to be fine, you know.”

Anne smiled at him and he felt himself smiling back, his eyes snapping back to the road. He could sense her uneasiness, her knee bouncing restlessly and, truthfully, he felt the same, although he couldn’t exactly detail _why._

He had spent the morning packing before taking a shower, checking his reflection in the mirror, tugging at the still damp curls that dried on his head. He attempted to smooth them down before giving up, the dark coils springing upwards disobediently. He ruffled it instead. It had been a long time since his hair had looked like that; wild and untamed, the curls falling against his forehead. It made him look younger, like the reflection of his eighteen-year-old self staring back at him, despite him feeling disjointed from that part of himself. Sure, he had the same hair and the same nose that he hated. He stood in the same bedroom. But a lot had changed. He was an uncle now, squealing laughter filling every room of the house that Dellie and Elijah were in. He was a boyfriend; soon to be a fiancé if he could just see it through. The emerald ring lay on the surface of his chest of drawers, placed there earlier after he had spent a sleepless night staring at it, watching how the stone seemed to glint with flashes of fire when the lamp light caught it; his mind more troubled than usual when he looked at it. Winnie was right for him and jitters were normal, but as the time to see her again crept nearer he felt his stomach fill with dread; an uneasy queasiness bubble at the thought of Winnie meeting Anne. They had been two separate things, his life in Avonlea and his life in Toronto, but now they were coming together; metropolitan Winnie meeting Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, as much a part of Avonlea as the earth her hair resembled so much. It was like two different halves of him were colliding, merging together to create a new Gilbert; one who was as much his hometown as he was the city, and Gilbert wasn’t sure he was capable of being both those people at once.

A sharp rap to his bedroom door had drawn him from his reverie, Gilbert snatching the ring from the top of his dresser and stuffing it into his pocket out of sight as Mary had bustled into his room with a pile of freshly laundered t-shirts.

He laughed as she placed them on his bed, neatly stacking them one-by-one into his case. “Mary, I’m going for a few days, not a month!”

“I just don’t want you to run out of things to wear,” she replied, her tone concerned and motherly. He chuckled, envisioning his wardrobe in his apartment, hangers holding more shirts and trousers than he could ever possibly wear, all neatly stored inside. It’s not like he could wear his Avonlea clothes when he was in Toronto anyway. Winnie liked him to look his best.

“You’re an extension of me, Gilbert. We always have to look put together. That’s how I make my money,” she explained as she eased a pair of discounted jeans that he had found on an untidy sale display from his hand, tossing them atop the others. He had agreed with her, wearing clothes with collars that were a little too stiff or with legs that were a little too tight because it made her happy and her business expand. She was selling the dream. A lifestyle that was well out of the reach of the average Canadian. The majority of things he owned would have bankrupted many of the people in Avonlea. He was lucky, he reminded himself. He was lucky to be with Winnie.

Gilbert glanced towards Anne once more. “Do you fancy a game to pass some time?”

She twisted beside him, angling her body away from the window and the flashing green landscape that passed outside and towards him, her knees dangerously close to the gear stick where his hand rested.

“What did you have in mind?”

“How about a game of _I Spy?_ ” he suggested with a shrug. Anne chuckled beside him.

“Are we five?” she teased. “ _And_ we’ll run out of things to spy soon. There’s nothing around but trees and cars!”

“Well, what did you have in mind?”

Anne pursed her lips, her fingers drumming against her bare thigh as she thought. “How about a little round of _Fuck, Marry, Kill?”_

Gilbert sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh, afraid I don’t know that one.”

“It’s pretty self-explanatory,” Anne laughed. “I give you three people. You just choose who you would sleep with, who you would marry and who you’d kill.”

“Alright.” Gilbert’s voice was uneasy, wary of who Anne was about to hurtle his way. It felt like a strange game to play. A little too intimate to play with Anne.

“You don’t actually have to do it, Gilbert,” Anne laughed, eyeing his stricken expression, his jaw clenched tight. “All hypothetical.”

Gilbert nodded curtly as Anne pondered on who to give him first. “Alright, let’s start of easy; fuck, marry, kill. Iron Man, Captain America or Thor?”

Gilbert choked. “That’s _easy?”_ he chuckled, his face flushing as Anne giggled at his reaction. “I can’t answer that!”

“Why? Are you a homophobe?”

“No, it’s just a stupid game.”

“Answer me, Blythe,” she ordered, her eyebrow quirking playfully. Gilbert chuckled.

“Alright,” he sighed, his mouth twisting into a grin. “Let me think. Uhm, marry Iron Man, fuck Thor, kill Captain America.”

Anne sucked in a sharp breath; her hands clasped over her heart as she feigned distress. “Kill Captain America? You would save _Thor_ and not Captain America?”

“Well, yeah,” Gilbert shrugged, his brow furrowed as he attempted to justify his choice. “He has a big hammer,” he concluded with a sheepish smile.

Anne snorted, watching as Gilbert’s eyes widened in shock, rounding as he pieced together the meaning she had interpreted from what he had said. “Not like that, Red!” he cried, his cheeks reddening, flushed the colour of the strawberry apples from his home’s orchard. “Not like that!”

“My, my, Mr Blythe. Aren’t you full of surprises?” He squinted at Anne pointedly, a smirk to his lips.

“Don’t start anything, Red. You don’t know who you’re dealing with here.”

“Apparently I do. A superhero simp. Well, I never.” Anne giggled as Gilbert shook his head, a twisted smile to his lips. She always made him put his foot in it; saying something he never meant but this time it felt different. It was playful; teasing. She had a sense of humour hidden beneath the cold shoulder she always gave him; and it was wickedly dark.

“You’re pretty funny, you know that?” he observed, laughing as Anne’s face fell, deadpan.

She raised her hand to her ear, fingers bending as though she was holding a phone. “Marilla come pick me up. A man has an opinion on me again.”

“Hey,” he cried in mock exasperation. “I’m sorry! I’ll never have an opinion again. Jeez!”

“Too late. You’re _one of them_ men.”

“And who exactly _are_ one of them men?” he questioned, shooting her a hasty glance, a playful smile to his lips.

“You know the type. Think women are just standing around waiting to be complimented. And most women don’t really care what you think. We’re going to do our own thing anyway.”

“And you?” he asked.

“And me what?”

“You said _most women_ don’t care. I’m asking if you do?”

Anne stared at him, unsure of how to answer. She did care. What people thought of her had always been important. She remembered when she first came to Avonlea and how hard she tried to fit in with the other girls until eventually Josie Pye begrudgingly let her sit with them at lunch. She remembered how eager she had been to please her teachers and how desperate she was to have any crush she ever had look at her.

“I suppose it depends on who it is,” she answered, her words thoughtful, her voice low.

“Moody?”

“Of course, I care what Moody thinks. He’s one of my best friends,” she declared.

“Charlie.”

“Not even an iota.”

“What about me?”

The air felt charged, the atmosphere deathly silent to Anne despite her being fully aware there was music playing.

“I don’t know,” she mused, turning from him and towards the window. “I think I’m still trying to figure you out.”

The words came easy, but she knew it was a lie. She cared what he thought of her. She always had; from the moment he tugged her hair, Anne burning with embarrassment that he would be so cruel. What was it about her that he felt he needed to single out? She asked herself that every day after, Gilbert squaring up to her in class, his tone easy as though she wasn’t ever a challenge for him; just an annoying fly speckling the windscreen of his life. She thought of that day in the park; the day she had discovered her love letter, when she had lied to him. Bettered herself so he would be impressed. So he wouldn’t think she had peaked too early. So he wouldn’t win.

“Alright, it’s your turn,” he announced in an attempt to change the subject, regretting ever bringing the conversation around, Anne’s shoulder turned towards him, her face twisted away. “Who do I choose?”

“That is up to you,” she replied, smiling over her shoulder towards him, thankful for the olive branch he offered despite not knowing why he needed to. He hadn’t offended her but he made her realise that perhaps he meant more to her than she gave him credit for. He shaped her in ways he didn’t realise he had. She was fiery because of him. All the passion and determination that coursed through her, that was because of him, and being with him again made her realise those parts of her still existed, despite them being hidden away for so long; buried beneath years of disappointment and grief.

“Right, let me think.” She watched as his face furrowed, his mind drawing a blank as he attempted to think of famous faces for her to choose from. “Donald Trump, Boris Johnson or Jair Bolsonaro?”

The smile slipped from Anne’s face, shaking her head disbelievingly. “You’re _terrible_ at this game,” she cackled. “I’m not answering that. Mary, Winnie or Sarah?”

“Who?”

“ _Hocus Pocus,_ dummy.”

“Oh. God. Marry Mary, fuck Winnie, kill Sarah,” he answered unthinkingly, not missing a beat.

“Final answer?” Anne asked, her eyebrows shooting upwards. He nodded curtly.

“Final answer.”

“You are so _bad_ at this. Sarah is undoubtedly the hottest and you would kill her? And Winnie is the worst! Why would you want to fuck her?”

“I don’t know,” he stated laughingly. “I think Mary is the kindest so I’d marry her.”

“Oh, one hundred percent,” Anne agreed, “but she’s not who I have the issue with. Kill Sarah but fuck Winnie? Is it her name? I don’t understand your reasoning here.”

“Her name? _No._ It’s just, I…” Gilbert shrugged as his mouth ran away from him, words tumbling from him before his brain could stop himself. “I sort of have a thing for red heads.”

The words hung in the air, Anne stilling as they danced around her, her heartbeat racing in her chest. She watched as he winced, his cheeks aflame, spots of red appearing high on his cheekbones. The silence stretched between them, Gilbert cursing himself for his stupidity; his mouth working quickly, his mind catching up afterwards. He wished he could suck them back in; rewind the clock and never say them. He hoped she wouldn’t read too much into it but he felt she already had; her eyes boring into him as he kept his focussed on the road ahead, terrified at what her expression would hold if he turned to her. Disgust or anger. Or worse; hope. But that was ridiculous. He would never see hope for him on Anne’s face. He felt himself swallow, Anne’s eyes shift to the Adam’s apple in his throat.

“Claire, Andie or Samantha?” she asked, her voice slicing through the tense silence that smothered them. He felt himself release a breath he didn’t realise had been trapped within him. “Which Molly Ringwald would you fuck, marry or kill?”

Gilbert sighed, thankful for the olive branch. “How did you know it was a Molly Ringwald thing?” he asked jokingly, his voice breathless, although he wasn’t sure if it was from relief or from laughter.

“It’s always a Molly Ringwald thing,” Anne answered. “Molly Ringwald, Jessica Rabbit and Ginny Weasley. With those three around, us other red heads never get a look in.”

Gilbert laughed as Anne spoke, feeling her eyes leave him. He grappled with the urge to look at her, losing the fight and giving in, casting a hasty glance at her from beneath his lashes. She was twisted towards the window once more, the glorious sunshine beating down on her through the pane of glass. Her skin was luminous, glowing with a rosy tinge, her hair aflame like a Catherine wheel, glinting strands of gold winking like sparks amongst the bright strands of flame red hair. She was glorious; a fay or a pixie. Something magical that sprouted from the earth.

He scratched his head, aware that Anne was still waiting for an answer. “Uhm, fuck Andie, marry Claire, kill Samantha.”

“Good choice,” Anne agreed, her face still turned towards the window.

“Glad you agree,” Gilbert returned, although he knew Molly Ringwald wouldn’t get a second glance if she shared a room with Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.

**********

A few more hours passed, Gilbert steering them through little towns not unlike Avonlea. Some rural and sleepy, others larger, similar to cities, Anne reading each sign they passed and declaring “I’ve never been here before.”

Gilbert felt his lips tug upwards as he watched her drink in the changing scenery outside the window; trees with yellowing boughs, parched from the heat. Towns with old fashioned buildings, panelled doors and huge windows, others that were more modern. She tapped at him excitedly, pointing out fountains or rivers, sweet little window displays, anything she found charming.

Gilbert laughed as she sat up straight peering ahead of her as they wound around the bend that led out of another town.

“That was my favourite one yet,” she declared.

“You said that about the last one,” he retorted.

“Well, I can’t help it. Doesn’t everywhere look so glorious in the sunshine? It makes the world look so _alive_.” She sighed contentedly, sinking back into the leather as Gilbert glanced upwards.

“I’m not too sure we’ll have sunshine for much longer,” he observed, the sky darkening a touch, clouds greying with the threat of a thunderstorm. Gilbert wouldn’t have minded it. The air was heavy, sticky, and he could feel his t-shirt cling to him with sweat, needing the thunder to provide a little relief. “Maybe we should stop for a little while? We could grab something to eat.”

“Are you afraid of a little rain, Blythe?”

“Not at all. But am I hungry? Yes. Yes, I am.”

They stopped at the next town, the streets still a hive of activity, people wandering the streets, pausing to chat to neighbours, a large expanse of manicured grass lined in a wrought iron fence in the centre of it, food trucks lining the kerb outside, a steady stream of people milling from the park to the trucks before bringing their goods back to the lawn to picnic. Gilbert found a space to park, locking the car behind him as they wandered towards a yellow truck, teal writing on the side promising ‘ _The Best Cuban Sandwich in all of Canada.’_

“I doubt they have _much_ competition,” Gilbert quipped as they read the menu, Anne opting for a falafel sandwich, Gilbert ordering a spicy beef one with a side of sweet potato fries. He placed his hand on Anne’s as she fumbled with the zip of her bag, searching for her purse.

“No. It’s on me.”

“Gilbert, you’ve done all the driving and..”

“Anne, let me buy you dinner.”

Anne stared at him as he turned from her, grabbing the wrapped food from the counter and thanking the team inside. It always surprised her when he used her name. He never did it often. But it sounded different from his lips; his tongue seeming to savour it, his mouth opening as though he was about to burst into joyous song. He said it like it was a wonderful thing to say. A word like pumpernickel or soliloquy or shenanigans; a word that danced from the tongue in a joyful little jive. Anne’s name wasn’t a word like that, but from Gilbert’s lips, it felt like it was.

“Shall we eat in the park?” he asked, handing her one of the sandwiches he had just bought. “It’s still a glorious day.”

“Sounds perfect.”

They lounged beneath a shady tree, Gilbert stretched out on the grass, propped up onto one elbow, the parcel of food wrapped in cheesecloth opened before him. Anne sat opposite him, her legs curled to the side as she picked at the bread, savouring the taste in her mouth.

“Well, what do you reckon? Best in all of Canada?” Gilbert asked with a smirk and Anne shrugged.

“Could very well be. I don’t have too much to compare it to.”

“You’ve never had a Cuban sandwich before?” he asked, his eyes rounding disbelievingly.

Anne chuckled. “Does Marilla seem the Cuban sandwich type to you?”

“Point taken.”

They ate in silence, both of them watching a couple who strolled along the path hand in hand, her head leaning against his shoulder. Anne felt her lips curve into a dreamy smile as she watched them, Gilbert’s face softening as he observed her, her eyes blinking slowly as the man pressed a kiss to his partner’s lips.

“When was your last boyfriend?” he asked, Anne’s eyes snapping from the couple and swivelling to where Gilbert lay on the grass.

“Well, we’ve just jumped straight into something here, haven’t we? No ‘what’s your favourite colour?’ or ‘what’s your favourite movie?’ first”

He shrugged innocently. “I’m only asking.”

“Why do you care?”

“Look, if it’s going to start an argument, pretend I never asked.” He rolled onto his back, his hands sliding under his head. Anne watching his chest rise and fall, her eyes gliding across his tummy and resting on a patch of toned skin that was exposed on his stomach, the hem of his t-shirt having ridden up as he stretched. She swallowed hard.

“I haven’t had one,” she answered, her voice small. Gilbert’s eyes snapped open, his head jerking upwards towards her.

“You’re kidding.” She shook her head, an embarrassed flush colouring her cheeks. “Ever?”

She shook her head again and Gilbert let out a sharp whistle. “But I’m not a _nun_ ,” she explained hastily. “I’ve been _with_ men. Just nothing that’s ever stuck.”

“And who was the last man you were with?”

“This is getting a little personal,” she teased, hoping her joking tone would hide the fact that she was still hurt by it. That she was reeling with mortification at having to share her story.

“You don’t have to…”

“It’s fine,” Anne interrupted. “It’s good that we get to know each other a little better.”

Gilbert nodded in agreement although he felt he knew her already. He knew her dreams and her ambitions. He knew how determined she was and how passionate. He knew her temper was sharp but her kindness was like spun sugar.

“His name was Dylan,” she began, sighing as he reflected on her short-lived love affair, “and he went to my college. I’d seen him around a few times but we had never really spoken before and then one night, at a mixer, he came up to me and told me all the usual rubbish. “You’re beautiful, wonderful”, blah, blah, blah.”

“So you’re a cynic?”

“No,” she argued lightly, her lips twisting with a wry smile. “I’m just good at detecting bullshit. I wasn’t then but I’ve gotten better. Anyway, we had a thing for a little while. 6 weeks, I think. And then he broke it off because he thought I was boring and a little too ugly for him. I met him a few weeks later and he didn’t even remember my name.”

“He sounds like a bastard.”

“Yeah, he was, I suppose.” Anne smiled mournfully, her eyes finding the grass, brushing lightly over the trimmed blades, the little green stems tickling her palm.

“And he was wrong,” Gilbert reassured, glancing up at her from under his lashes; Anne’s eyes attaching to his like magnets. “You’re not _boring._ And you _are_ beautiful, Anne. Never let anyone make you think otherwise.”

Anne felt her skin flush, explode with thousands of goosepimples, running her hands up her arms, feeling them appear on her skin beneath her fingertips; a bright red blush colouring her cheeks.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled at her, a sweet lopsided smile that make her stomach flutter queerly with butterflies.

Anne swallowed back, dragging her eyes from his face, her hand still ghosting over the grass. “So, tell me about Winnie.”

Gilbert’s face fell, his mouth flattening into a line as his girlfriend’s face flooded his mind. He swallowed back guiltily, realising he had forgotten about her for just a moment. It was strange how Anne had the power to do that. To make him feel like no-one else existed when she was around. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. You never talk about her and if I’m to meet her tomorrow I’ll need a little background knowledge.” Anne huffed a laugh but the sound was forced and hollow, devoid of the lilting tinkle that was so familiar to him now.

“Alright. Well, she’s… she’s,” Gilbert paused, his brow furrowing as he tried to think of how to describe Winnie. She was everything he thought he wanted. “She’s successful. And driven and she _cares_ so much about what she does.”

“So, you want a career type?” Anne clarified, stretching her legs out before her, Gilbert eying the red marks the grass had pressed against her skin.

“Not necessarily,” he answered, tearing his gaze tersely from Anne’s skin and towards his hands, curling the fingers into fists to fight his sudden desire to touch her. “But I like someone who’s ambitious. Someone who goes after what they want. Jobs or promotions or…”

“Mystery boyfriends?” Anne interjected with a laugh but the laughter died on her lips as she found Gilbert studying her, his eyes roaming over her face, resting on her lips a beat too long as his mouth formed a fleeting smile. She swallowed.

“Where did you guys meet?” Anne croaked, Gilbert’s eyes snapping back to her eyes again. He sighed wearily and Anne felt herself bristle. She felt like a petulant child, its parent’s patience wearing thin.

“Like everyone meets,” he replied, collapsing onto his back again, staring skyward at the grey coloured clouds that appropriated the bright blue sky, Anne’s shadow becoming paler as it stretched beside him on the grass. He flattened his hand against it, his fingertips brushing the grass. “Drunk at a party,” he concluded with an impish smile.

“Go on,” Anne prompted, brushing her hair over her shoulder as she turned to lie beside him. Her hair pooled between them, the fiery red strands contrasting with the fresh green grass. He traced each strand with his eyes. “Was it love at first sight? Did you know she was your soulmate straight away?”

He chuckled. “No. Nothing like that. I don’t really believe in soulmates. We just…” He paused. It was a pathetic story really; poor little Gilbert lost in big Toronto. He wondered if he should be honest with Anne. If he should tell her of when he was vulnerable. Hadn’t she just entrusted him with a secret of her own. He rolled onto his side, propping his head up in his hand. “So, the first thing you should know about me is I don’t really make friends that easily.”

“You could have fooled me,” Anne declared. “Everyone _loved_ you in school.”

“Not everyone.” She glanced towards him, flushing as he looked at her knowingly, his face twisted with a smirk.

“Touché. You may proceed.”

Gilbert chuckled, inhaling before he continued. “I went along to this party with a few guys from my class. We weren’t really friends but I was really homesick and didn’t have anyone else. I always get homesick after visiting home. I was just wandering around, minding my own business when I heard this voice chattering and so I followed it. And there she was in the kitchen, about five vodka tonics in, and she was talking to nothing, prattling away to the fridge and the kettle and…” he laughed gently, the timbre deep and low. Anne felt a shiver tremble down her spine. “She reminded me of someone,” he concluded, an odd smile to his face, as though he was lost in a memory.

“Who did she remind you of?” Anne whispered and he turned towards her, his eyes locking to hers again, the honeyed hazel warm and inviting.

“She reminded me of you.”

Anne inhaled sharply, her stomach fizzing and her body frozen; pinned to the spot where she lay by his eyes, his gaze weighted, heavy. She felt her breath catch, a shiver ghost across the surface of her skin, leaving a flurry of goosepimples in its wake.

“That’s quite the story,” she whispered, Gilbert blinking hurriedly as though the spell he was under had suddenly been broken; a storybook prince awoken by true love’s kiss.

He emitted a sharp huff of a breath, his eyes flickering across her features momentarily before he turned from her, staring skyward. “Yes. I suppose it is.”

Anne twisted her face from him, cold without his warming gaze despite the cloying heat. She watched the ominous clouds above them drifting slowly through the sky, a large droplet falling from the heavens and splashing against Anne’s cheeks. She reached up to touch it, her fingers tracing through the wetness as a rattle of thunder shook the atmosphere around them, but still Anne lay, a wide grin on her face as the clouds parted and rain spilled down onto them, bouncing against the pavement near them, pattering onto the leafy boughs above, soaking Anne’s sundress and her exposed limbs. She reached upwards, the rain coursing down her arms in rivulets.

“I love the rain.” Anne closed her eyes, allowing it to wet her face, her eyes. She turned her head towards Gilbert, who lay beside her with his eyes closed, as though he was completely at peace, the cool water baptising him; cleansing him until he was renewed. She felt the trace of a smile on her lips as she watched him, and as though he could sense her, his face turned to meet hers. “Don’t you?” she asked and his lips curved into a smile she had never seen before; one that looked happy and sad all at the same time. Like he was grappling with something huge inside himself.

“It makes me feel alive,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the thunder that shook the heavens. Anne felt a lump swell in her throat as his eyes met hers, darker than before; swimming with ghosts. Ghosts of all he was and all he used to be. Anne swallowed thickly, struck with the sudden need to comfort him; to tell him she felt it too. That feeling of being lost. She knew it all too well.

But she didn’t. Instead she threw herself forwards, clambering to her feet and dragging Gilbert up with her, throwing her arms out wide as she spun under the shower.

“I’m alive,” she cried, laughing as she twirled, her voice like a glorious tinkle; a windchime in the wind. “I’m alive!”

Gilbert laughed as he watched her; a free spirit, spinning in her sundress, the pale blue cotton soaked to a deep teal, clinging to her waist and her breasts, the outline of her thighs. He felt like that boy in the park again, at 13 years old, drawn like a moth to the girl with the flame red hair and the voice that enchanted him like an incantation; a woman now, but still as vivacious. Completely ordinary yet wonderfully extraordinary, all at the same time.

She skipped in a circle, free from any inhibition, a song in her heart, until she suddenly felt herself stumbling backwards, her foot slipping against the rain slicked grass. She closed her eyes as she fell through the air, bracing herself for the impact of the earth under her head. She reached out, grasping onto something, anything that could break her fall, until her hand closed around something that felt like a rain-soaked shirt, the jersey soft and wet, a heavy weight toppling onto her as her head slammed against the grass.

She giggled as she rubbed the back of her head, opening her eyes to see what she had brought tumbling down with her and startling, her breath catching in her throat, as she met Gilbert’s eyes, his breath hot against her lips, hovering mere centimetres above her own. His eyes flickered between hers, his breath ragged and heaving, his heart racing, Anne able to feel it through his thin t-shirt, his chest pressed against her own. His gaze lowered, flickering to her lips and Anne squirmed beneath him, her heart hammering against her ribcage as she fought with her desire to close the gap; to press her lips to his in an impulsive kiss.

His gaze flickered to her eyes once more, Anne surprised to find herself reflected in them, laid beneath him, her hair framing her like a halo of fire; wild and wet and _wanton._

She laughed breathily, her hand reaching up to brush a soaked curl back from his forehead, Gilbert melting at her touch. “We’re _alive_ , Gilbert.”

His eyes darted over her; her heartbeat hammering against him, the soft flesh of her breasts pressed against his chest. He was so close, so near her, that he could kiss her if she wanted him to. And he might have, had she given him a sign that she wanted it. He was so entranced by her in the rain, her bright red hair a dark auburn, the tip of her nose glowing red. He was enamoured by her vivacity; her desire for life. He wanted more. He _needed_ it. He needed to know more of her mind and her thoughts; her silly jokes and her private dreams.

“Anne,” he rasped, his voice low and gravelled, her skin tingling where his breath warmed.

“Yes?”

“What’s your favourite colour?”

She laughed at the question. It didn’t feel like the time nor the place, his mouth so close to hers, his hands bracketing her shoulders.

“Green,” she replied, her eyes on his, counting the colours that mingled together to create the magical shade of hazel that was _his;_ emerald and moss. Jade green and olive _._ “And you?”

“Red,” he whispered, his eyes roving from her face and to her hair, his index finger toying at the end of a curled strand. “Flame red.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, hello again!
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read this tale and being so patient with me. It’s random and a little bit of a filler chapter I suppose, but I’m struggling to get back into the swing of things, so this story will be slooooow, and I thought it would be nice to see them bond. 
> 
> Some notes to accompany this chapter:  
> 1\. Kintsugi pottery is a Japanese pottery art in which a piece becomes more valuable after it has been broken as gold is used to glue it back together. It’s super beautiful and a wonderful metaphor for humans, I think. “Broken things have such a sad beauty.”
> 
> 2.‘Bida’ is an old fashion brand from the 60’s and 70’s. I’m not sure if it was just a thing on this side of the world (I’m from Ireland) but they had stores and catalogues and were the first ‘high-street’ clothing store here. 
> 
> 3.The Red String of Fate is a Chinese proverb that believes soulmates are tethered together by an invisible red string that can twist and shorten and lengthen and never break. I’m a big believer in soulmates (a proper Ruby Gillis) and I like to believe this. So it’s not that you’re ‘forever alone’, your person just hasn’t found you yet. Hang tight!
> 
> I’ve been overwhelmed by the kindness that has been shown to me through your feedback and comments on this fic. I love and appreciate each and every comment left for me; the feedback and knowing people are enjoying this fills me with so much joy, you have no idea!
> 
> Thanks again for reading again!
> 
> Until next time,  
> Becky x


	6. Chapter Five: 'Then you are here! And joy is here – joy now and forevermore!'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert's feelings cause him confusion as Anne and Gilbert travel to Toronto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautiful humans! 
> 
> I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me and this story! Surprise!
> 
> Apologies this update has come so incredibly late. Real life has gotten quite heavy (I'm back to face-to-face teaching and also had a close encounter with Covid) but hopefully there is still a little interest in this story despite the long wait between chapters. 
> 
> I feel like I say this all the time but I've taken a huge knock to my confidence with this one and doubt my writing ability all the time so updates tend to come a little slower while I battle through a lot of self-doubt and skill-questioning. I hope I can still do this story justice.
> 
> A huge thank you to my lovely friend, the ever wonderful [Kara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashingwhitesgt/pseuds/dashingwhitesgt), for taking on the monumental task of being beta for this chapter. I'm sorry my writing is so messy, my grammar is somewhat shoddy and I'm too dang wordy for my own good. I owe you one! (or ten zillion!)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this next little taster of this tale! This chapter title comes from a letter from Emily Dickinson (Happy Birthday Emily Dickinson's ghost!) to Susan Gilbert.
> 
> Alright, here we go...

Gilbert exhaled, raking a hand roughly through his hair as he slowed at a traffic light, its piercing red glare flooding the front seat of their car with a wash of harsh crimson. He glanced across at Anne, his eyes lingering on her for a minute, her face the picture of peace, eyes closed as she breathed deeply. Inhaling, her chest rising with the breath, and exhaling slowly through her parted lips. 

He tore his gaze away, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes before dragging them down his face, palms pressing together at his mouth in a silent prayer; a plea. His eyes screwed shut. What was _happening_ to him? Why, in the bleakness of the evening, gloom filling the car and swirling around them, cloaking them in a blanket of dark obscurity, could he see flashes of bright red and copper, russet and gold? Why could he see twinkling blue eyes and lips the colour of peony roses? Creamy skin flecked with brown, like brushstrokes on a clean canvas; constellations in the sky.

He drew his hands away, fingers finding the steering wheel and curling around the cool leather, knuckles blanched with the ferocity of his grip. He lifted his eyes to the lights, the sound of whooshing traffic as it sped past affirming he would still find them red, but he needed a distraction. Something to train his gaze to as he fought with the temptation to turn to Anne once more, to let himself drink her in where she was huddled in the washed-out green sweatshirt he had found in the back seat of his car after she had climbed in beside him, still dripping wet from the rain, Gilbert dropping it unceremoniously in her lap as Anne mumbled an embarrassed, “Thanks.”

And although he liked to imagine it was a chivalrous act, allowing her to cuddle into the old sweater, he knew it was purely selfish. He couldn’t have stopped himself from staring in that moment: sodden cotton clinging to her frame, one strap slipped from a shoulder exposing a cluster of dark freckles. Water slowly trickled over her skin, beads of rain trailed down her arms, her neck, before disappearing into her dress. Down where he couldn’t see.

He swallowed, something almost like a groan escaping his lips and he found his head snapping towards her again. An involuntary reflex, something he couldn’t control. He wasn’t sure when she had fallen asleep. They had travelled so long without speaking, the interior of the car a cacophony of pounding rain against glass and the squeak of rubber window wipers, _Trouble at the Hen House_ playing low in the background, the sound of static as the tape ended, rewinding before the same thirteen songs started again. Sharp, shallow breaths that slowed and then deepened, Gilbert’s eyes darted to the figure on the passenger seat to find her curled into the corner, her head lolled to the side and her eyes closed; faintly coloured lashes resting on reddened cheeks.

He felt his mouth quirk into a soft smile as he watched her, her hair straighter now, wispy strands frizzing outwards and catching in the glare of the red light; amber tendrils twisted like fine threads of spun sugar. The sweater was bulky on her, the sleeves too long, dragged down and covering her hands, and the skirt of her dress was still damp underneath, the cotton creased as the moisture evaporated out of the material. Her bare thighs were visible, knees falling to the left, so close to the hand he now rested on the gearstick that he could have brushed against them. His hand tightened, Gilbert wrestling with the image his mind had conjured; of it being her thigh trapped below his grip instead, at the point just above her knee. How her skin would feel, the softness of her flesh as he curled his fingers around her and squeezed…

The blaring of a horn wrenched Gilbert from his thoughts, his skin hot as his eyes found the rear-view mirror, the driver in the car behind grumbling as Gilbert shifted into first gear and began to move. He would need to stop soon, he reasoned. He didn’t trust himself driving tonight. He was too flustered, his thoughts too unordered, and that was unlike him. He was pragmatic; always analytical and realistic. That was one of the things Winnie always said she appreciated about him. He was _sensible_ , he always had been, but he didn’t feel it now. He felt like there should have been a full moon in the sky; some large, yellowed globe that transformed reasonable men into fools. That filled his head with thoughts of Anne no matter how hard he willed them away.

A few hours had passed since he had picnicked with Anne in a park, the haze of heat and sunshine dimming as the clouds above them split open, rain tumbling down and drenching them both through. He had been caught in rain showers before, had had his clothes soaked through with precipitation as he ran from the library to the medical school building, ducking for cover in doorways or under a tree whenever he could. But this rain shower made his world feel like it was tilting on an axis.

He had lain next to a girl on the grass but when the rain fell on them she transformed; metamorphosing into something new. She was a dryad, a thing borne of the earth. She was dancing and laughing and spinning, and he was hypnotised by her every movement; the flex of her hands and the twist of her ankle. The fan of red hair falling about her shoulders as the rain wet it through, dying it a darkest auburn. And he felt like what she had said. He felt _alive;_ his heart racing faster, the world around him brighter – more vibrant. He felt like he could have danced too; joined her and spun until the world was nothing but a blur of green and red and blue; a kaleidoscope of shapes he couldn’t make out, and there was just him and Anne and the realisation that that moment was the happiest he had felt in a really long time. Lying next to Anne, dancing with her under a thunderstorm, the gurgle of laughter escaping her lips the only music he needed.

And then he was falling, jerked from his feet by something that gripped him, tethering onto him and tugging, dragging him down into these strange feelings that he couldn’t rid his mind of. And when he opened his eyes, there she was below him, laid out like a goddess; like a painting he had once seen, a woman on her back, rain-soaked in a boat. But unlike that painting, Anne’s eyes were open, on his, and she was exuberant; a glowing thing, bright embers appearing under ash as someone stoked a fire.

It was impulsive, his question, how his hand moved to her hair, and what had started out at a simple caress, one finger brushing against a curling tendril, had turned into something more, Gilbert’s hand winding into the strands. He felt his eyes widen, his lips part as he watched tongues of fire twist around tanned skin.

He held his breath, remembering the sound he had made, something he hadn’t expected to escape him, drawn forth from deep inside. Not quite a sigh as his skin met siren red hair. Not quite a gasp. It was more like a _hiss_ ; guttural. Tresses like a branding iron searing into his skin, Gilbert imagining his wrist emblazoned with a red mark when he drew away, imprinted onto him like a tattoo. _Anne._

Then she moved beneath him, his eyes finding her face again as a huff of laughter that was barely a breath slipped through parted lips; lips so close to his that he could feel her breath brush against him, mingle with his own, the heat from it gentle, although it made Gilbert feel as though his body was made of magma. Red hot molten rock swirling around inside him, rising closer and closer to the surface, his eyes sliding to parted lips; plump and patient and waiting. Waiting for…

“We should go,” she had blurted, her eyes suddenly wild, her voice brittle. And the spell was broken. He drew away from her, tumbling onto his back on the grass, the heat in his stomach curdling into a wave of sickening guilt. He was going to kiss her; he would have kissed her. He screwed his eyes shut, fingers pinching the point where his brow narrowed into the bridge of his nose as he conjured the image of a girl with blonde hair and pale blue eyes; Winnie like a cooling bucket of water doused over singed flesh.

He sat forward, hearing Anne move behind him, sit up and draw her knees into herself, Gilbert’s palms finding his face, fingers pressed into his eyes to rid them of the final flashes of gold; the last traces of what had felt like magic. He got to his feet, hesitating just a moment, unsure of whether he should offer her a hand, before outstretching his arm to her, Anne’s eyes on him like he was something to fear. But she took it, her hand slipping into his as he hauled her to her feet before she yanked it away, dropping to when she stood steady before him. He nodded curtly, mumbling, “Yeah. Yeah, we should.”

He watched as she turned from him and paced across the grass, Gilbert’s fingers flexing at his side, curling and uncurling into a fist as he watched her go; his heart not slowing until she disappeared from view, putting distance between herself and the bedraggled figure who still stood on the lush lawns underneath the rain. He stayed there, eyes closed and head tilted skywards, until he felt her heat evaporate, dissolve away with each droplet of water that trickled down his face, across his lips, and when he felt cooled once more, rid of all traces of her and what he felt had just transpired between them, he began to walk, moving across the lawns and past the wrought iron railings, back towards the car he had left at the side of the road.

Anne was leaning against the car when he approached, one arm wrapped around her middle, the other at her mouth as she chewed at a nail. Her eyes were trained on the ground before her, puddles forming as droplets splashed onto the pavement, but Gilbert didn’t think she even noticed. She seemed dazed; her eyes wide but unseeing. He cast a shadow on the pavement as he stopped before her but she didn’t raise her gaze to him. Instead ,she turned towards the locked door and waited for him to let her in.

The interior of the car was warm, the heady heat of the afternoon still suspended in the air, but Anne seemed to shiver as he settled next to her. He watched as she twisted her hair into one coil, squeezing at the lengths as water dripped slowly down her skin. He gulped and her eyes met his in a startled gaze. She let her hair fall loose, the coil unravelling as she raked her hands through flaming strands. He wrenched his eyes away, reaching through the gap between them and into the backseat, dragging the sweatshirt she was now bundled in from among the items scattered across it – Anne’s cardigan and Gilbert’s jacket, a windbreaker he had thrifted that he kept just in case it was ever needed. He dropped the sweatshirt onto her lap, busying himself with righting the mirror, sliding the key into the ignition, the engine roaring back to life. She straightened, her back arching from the seat as she slipped the sweater over her head, relaxing back against the covered chair and pulling the material down to cover her hands, slipping them between her thighs.

Gilbert took off after she was settled, driving them out onto the road. The park and the rain shower became a memory; it was behind them, the road stretching out ahead. It had been quiet, Gilbert mulling over whether he should apologise, turn to her and make an excuse for what had just occurred. He was tired, that was all. He hadn’t meant to. He’d been shocked by the fall and wasn’t thinking straight. But every excuse felt ingenuine and untrue. As he opened his mouth to speak, he could imagine she would be able to hear the lie in his tone, because, truthfully, there was no explanation for what had just happened. It was _Anne_ , an old school rival; a new friend. Ten years ago, he would have grumbled over having to spend time with her, skulking home from a day at school and dropping his bag at the foot of the table. Bash would raise his eyebrows comically and ask, “Bad day?”, and Gilbert would huff “ _The worst”,_ as he poured himself a drink, raising the glass to his lips and lowering it again, a scowl to his face as he declared, “She is _so_ frustrating.”

Never would that boy have thought that not seven years later he would have her sleeping next to him in his father’s car, his head fogged with images of her; light dappling against bare skin or awash with the moon in a meadow. Dressed in shimmering green or stretched out below him as his body shielded her from the rain.

He closed his eyes. He thought of Bash and Mary. He thought of Dellie and Elijah. He thought of Winnie. He thought of a figure spinning under the sky.

“ _Fuck.”_

The word came as barely a whisper, a breath into the stillness of the car. He glanced at Anne and away again. He needed to stop; to put some distance between them. He needed glaring lights and noise, anything to distract him from his tangled thoughts and her heavy breaths and the pull of her dark silhouette against the window. He considered parking where they were, pulling along the roadside and walking and walking until he felt chilled by the mid evening air and the dampness of his clothes; until his mind was focused on the rush of traffic and the sound of his feet falling against the ground. But he drove on, desperate to end the journey, to stop at the foot of the tall, sand-bricked building he now called home and let the elevator doors close on this adventure. To fall into a bed beside someone who didn’t confuse him, who didn’t challenge him at every turn. Who didn’t make his mind whirl in the most infuriating way.

He drove on until his eyes grew heavy, strained from concentrating on road signs and the piercing glare of car lights in the gloom, and, eventually, when his body ached with fatigue, he decided to stop, finding himself in a dreary little town where he passed shop fronts with shuttered windows, their grubby paint peeling from the walls. The streets seemed mostly deserted, dotted only with one or two people scurrying to find shelter from the rain. Gilbert scanned for somewhere with a light still on; somewhere there would be warmth and people and maybe something hot and caffeinated.

He slowed at the opening to a narrow car park that led to a shopping complex, a bright sign overhead flashing with the word diner. He frowned, scanning across the shuttered shop fronts; a butcher’s shop, a hair salon, a Goodwill and hardware store all darkened, shut for the night. Light came only from a black-walled adult film store, the door ajar, a patron emerging from the cavern inside and out into the streetlights, hurrying along the path and into the diner the neon sign had promised: a dingy building, with a grubby, faded sign overhead, cloudy smears on the window.

He grimaced as he parked the car. It wasn’t exactly what he had in mind when he thought of somewhere to stop, but the promise of coffee and heat was too much to resist. He twisted the keys and the engine quietened beneath them. Anne snuffled beside him, her drooping head straightened and her eyes squeezed together slightly as her hand rubbed at her nose. She yawned as her eyes fluttered open, hands coming up to her neck and extending into her hair as she stretched, her spine curving against the seat. She blinked, her hooded eyes still cloudy from the lull of slumber as she took him in. 

“Are we stopping already?” she asked, a parched croak to her voice.

“We’ve been driving for ages,” he replied, a small smile playing at his lips as she took in their new surroundings with sleep-addled addled eyes; the darkened car park and unfamiliar buildings.

She ran her hands over her eyes, a gentle flush to her skin as she glanced up at him. “I must have been out like a light, huh?”

He laughed lightly, matching her casual tone. “I’ve seen dead people more alive than you,” he replied, relieved that his voice sounded offhand, almost relaxed. He sounded more like the Gilbert he had become over the past few years. Sensible despite the nervous fluttering in his stomach; a fear that history would repeat itself and he would find himself too hot, Anne too close.

“And _why_ are we here?” she questioned, brow knitted as she peered through the windows towards the dank little café and the film store next door.

“I needed a break,” he replied, wrenching the key from the car and pocketing it. “And maybe a coffee.”

“But it’s a little…” she glanced towards the shop front once more. “I don’t know, _dingy_ , isn’t it?”

Gilbert huffed a laugh. “I don’t care if it’s Alcatraz itself as long as it has caffeine.”

He opened the door, climbing out into the evening air and inhaling a great lungful of it deeply, allowing the rain to cool his skin. He heard the passenger door click open, Anne slamming it shut, her step hurried on the tarmacked ground as she moved to his side, muttering, “I think I’d rather take my chances with Alcatraz,” as they crossed the road to the cafe.

They were greeted with a wave of warmth, the air thick and heavy with the smell of oil. The walls were painted bright blue, the din of metal against metal and sizzling fat filling the air. A television was mounted up on the wall, blaring an old episode of some Spanish soap opera. Gilbert glanced around him, noting that the majority of booths were unoccupied, save for two: the man from the movie store was seated in one, licking salt from his sausage-like fingers, and an elderly gentleman nursing a coffee, his head buried in a newspaper was in the other.

There were two waitresses behind the counter: one was aged with flamingo-pink painted lips, polishing at glasses with a grubby cloth, and the other was a girl in her early twenties, her curvy body leaning across the counter, chin resting in her palm. She straightened at the jingle of the bell that signalled Anne and Gilbert’s arrival, her tongue sucking at her teeth as her eyes ran over the length of Gilbert, a purr to her voice as she spoke.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, scowling slightly as Anne answered.

“Just looking for a table, thanks.”

She cackled, her laughter vulgar and throaty. “Take your pick.”

Anne bristled at the note of sarcasm in her voice, stalking down the shop and dropping into a booth at the back, Gilbert opposite her, his head ducking as he skimmed the menu laid flat on the table.

“She was a little rude,” she grumbled, snatching the drinks menu from between the salt and pepper shakers and burying her head in it. “And she looked like she was about to eat you alive.”

Gilbert forced himself to focus on the drinks listed before him but the words seemed to slide off the page as he felt something inside him quiver, his heart racing at what he thought sounded like annoyance in Anne’s voice. Almost like she was _jealous_ of the waitress’ attentions toward him. He shook himself inwardly. _There’s no way._

He lifted his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. “And what’s wrong with that?” he asked.

Anne scoffed. “ _I’m_ here,” she argued. Then she stilled, her breath hitching in her throat, as he lifted his head to hers, his eyes soft as they searched her face. She swallowed anxiously, nervous of what he would find there.

“And?”

The word was quiet, Gilbert watching as her expression shifted, her eyes widened and then fell to the table, a pale blush tinge her skin. She lifted a menu too, turning it over in her hands and laying it flat against the table before her. Her elbow found the top of the oilcloth, propping her chin in her hands.

“Well, nothing, really,” she mumbled, feeling her face flame. “It’s just I might have been - you know...”

She shifted in the seat, repositioning herself, her eyes darting to him momentarily to find him studying her.

“What?” He wasn’t sure why he was pressing the issue, why he needed to hear her say what he knew she was going to, but something inside him drove him to push forward; was desperate to know what it would sound like for her to say it. How her mouth would twist to form the word and a crimson blush would dance across her skin, settling high on her cheeks. Her gaze darted from him and to the dust-thick sconces on the wall.

“Well, your girlfriend or something,” she mumbled, her hands coming up to cover her cheeks. She was uncomfortable, he realised. He had pushed her too far, her reddened cheeks deepening as she cringed at her answer.

He smiled in what he hoped was a jovial way, forcing a teasing tone into his voice as he leant back, ran a hand through his hair and said, “Can’t blame someone for shooting their shot, I guess.”

They fell quiet once more. Anne watched as Gilbert returned to the menu, perusing the same list of drinks for the third time. They had been strange since the rain shower earlier that day; conversation faltering, the atmosphere in the car tense. Anne was glad that she had slept. It had shortened the journey; made things less awkward. But they had so much road left to travel and, as much as her younger self would have despised her for it, Anne didn’t want to spend the time they had left as a two stewing over Gilbert. She’d rather speak to him and play their ridiculous games as the minutes melted away.

“Hey, Gilbert?” Her hand fell to the table, fingers laying lightly against the striped tablecloth. He looked down at her hand and back up at her eyes again; the colour deeper now, her expression uncertain. It was like staring into the sea on a stormy day, watching the hypnotising swell of the water at the surface and battling with the urge to dive headfirst into it, letting the sea swallow him whole. “We’re okay, aren’t we?”

She sounded uncertain, a lift to the edge of her question that made him think she may have been just as confused about the events that came to pass underneath the rain as he was, even though he couldn’t see into her mind. She fingered at the edge of her menu, the laminated coating splitting apart as her eyes raised slowly to his.

He felt his bottom lip catch between his teeth, drawing it into his mouth and releasing it again. Then he nodded.

“Yeah,” he replied with a smile. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“It’s just... We haven’t spoken in a while and I was just wondering…” her voice trailed off and her eyes dropped to the table again, the corner of her mouth tugging slightly into something he thought was meant to be a smile.

“You were sleeping. I’d have been a bit of a dick if I’d kept on talking.”

She laughed lightly, a huff of air emitted from her nose as her face brightened, her lips widening into a genuine grin.

“You’re a bit of a dick anyway,” she retorted. 

Gilbert chuckled as the waitress approached their table, a ravenous look in her eye.

************

They swallowed down their drinks quickly, Anne stirring her tea contemplatively when she raised her eyes to Gilbert.

“Fuck, marry, kill,” she mused, Gilbert’s groan earning a laugh from Anne.

“Not again, Red.”

“No, hear me out,” she argued with a laugh, a twinkle of glee in her eyes. “It’s a good one.”

Gilbert remained quiet; his face twisted with a teasing smirk that scrunched his nose as he eyed her across the table. Anne took it as the encouragement she needed to continue.

“Princess Fiona, Shrek, Donkey.”

She giggled as his face contorted; a flash of a smile, then a frown, then a grimace. “Now, that’s _hardly_ fair!” he exclaimed, Anne shrugging innocently and lifting her mug to her mouth.

“Are you too chicken to answer, doc?” she challenged before taking a sip of her tea. Gilbert sighed, thinking through his options.

“Well, I’m not into bestiality, so I guess that’s Donkey dead.”

“Oh, what a pity. I think you would have made a lovely couple.”

Gilbert chuckled, leaning forward on the table and circling his cup in his hands. “Ah, Shrek or Fiona?” he mused. “Fuck Fiona and marry Shrek.”

Anne’s laughter was triumphant and she beamed at Gilbert, her cheeks rosy with mirth. “See, that’s why I _love_ playing this game with you. You always end up losing.”

“And how did I lose this time?” he quizzed, leaning onto his elbows towards her, Anne mimicking his movement, her chin propped in her hand.

“Well, the majority of marriages are consummated, aren’t they?”

Her face was deadpan, her voice matter of fact, but she burst into brilliant laughter once more as the smirk slipped momentarily from Gilbert’s face at the understanding of what she was insinuating.

“Alright, then, I suppose it’s your turn,” Gilbert ventured, Anne lifting her hand to silence him.

“Oh, don’t bother. You’re terrible at this game.”

“I think I have it down now,” he reassured her with a grin. “You just pick three people who are sort of terrible so it’s always a lose, lose, lose situation.”

Anne quirked an eyebrow as she eyed him over steepled fingers. “Ah, young grasshopper,” she joked. “I believe the student has just become the master.”

Gilbert huffed a laugh. “You’re a proper dork, you know that?”

“ _I’m_ a dork,” she parroted, her eyes rounded in feigned horror as her hand fell to her chest. “Coming from you.”

“And what’s wrong with me?”

“You give off strong ‘ _NASA posters in my bedroom’_ vibes, doc.”

Gilbert’s brow furrowed as his fingers reached for his cup again. Anne pointed at him accusingly from across the table, a delighted smile spreading across her face. “You do, don’t you?”

Gilbert shrugged nonchalantly, a smirk to his face as he eyed her from above the rim of the mug. “What were you doing thinking of my bedroom anyway?” he teased.

Anne flummoxed, the smile on her face faltering slightly as she dropped her head. “I wasn’t.”

Her answer was sharp, Anne reaching out and lifting a sachet of sugar from the table, ripping it open and stirring it into her tea. He watched her movements with confusion. She didn’t take sugar, he remembered. She had told him that back at the start of the summer, when they were beginning their search, Anne at his kitchen table, her arm accidentally knocking his.

“Red?”

Anne seemed to turn a brighter shade of rogue, her skin tainted the exact shade of the crisp strawberry apples in the orchard back in Avonlea, as she reluctantly met his eye once more. 

“What?”

He grinned. “Fuck, marry kill: Buzz Aldrin, Buzz Lightyear or,” he paused, his lips pursed and eyes narrowed as he thought of a third to add to his round. A slow smile spread across his face. “Buzz McAlister?”

“As in, Buzz from _Home Alone?”_ Anne asked, her eyebrow quirking.

“The very one.”

“Doesn’t that mean I’d be his girlfriend though? _Woof!_ ”

Gilbert chuckled, nodding his head slightly as he replied. “I suppose it would, yeah.”

“Well, I have no choice but to kill him then.” Her fingers drummed against the table. “I’d probably marry Buzz Aldrin. It would be cool to be married to a real life astronaut.”

“So you’d fuck Buzz Lightyear?” Gilbert questioned, his brow curving as he eyed her over his cup, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

“I’ve got the hair, right?” Anne laughed, tugging at her sodden tendrils to emphasise her point. “And I suppose I could do the whole cowgirl thing.”

Gilbert choked on the mouthful of coffee he had just inhaled, Anne’s eyes wide as his mouth twisted with mirth.

“Not like _that,_ Gil,” she spluttered, the redness in her cheeks deepening as he wheezed with laughter. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It _sounded_ like that.”

“Well, that’s not what it was _meant_ to sound like. I just meant wearing chaps and things.”

Gilbert wiped at his eyes, a fresh wave of laughter overcoming him. “That doesn’t much help your case, Red.”

He fell back against his seat, his hand finding his stomach as he laughed. Anne’s eyes narrowed as she watched him, her lips pursed and arms crossed tightly over her chest, but there was something infectious in his laughter and, as much as she tried to hide it, to think of terrible, sad things to make it disappear, she felt a smile tug at her lips. She gave in, letting it alight her features, laughter bubbling up from inside of her and mingling with Gilbert’s in a joyful song. 

They left soon after, Gilbert drawing out his wallet to pay and Anne protesting just enough to be considered polite before giving in, allowing him to pass a crisp note across the counter. He checked his watch, smothering a yawn with the back of his hand, as they paced back through the rain and towards the car, Gilbert waiting for the buzz of the caffeine to kick in.

“I can drive for a while if you want,” Anne offered, eyeing the paleness to his skin, the dark rings appearing beneath hooded eyes. She heard him chuckle softly beside her.

“You?” 

Anne nodded, raising her eyes to find him smiling down at her. 

“You don’t drive, Red.”

“But I _can_ drive,” she argued impishly, stopping at the nose of the car as he walked to the driver’s seat, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the key. “If you can do it, how hard could it be?”

“It’s fine,” he smirked, the car clicking as Gilbert unlocked it. “I don’t mind doing it.”

“But you’re clearly tired,” she urged, pacing towards him and stopping just shy of his shoulder, holding her hand out between them for him to pass the key over.

“I’ll be alright.”

“Are you always so stubborn?” she huffed, hands finding her hips, annoyance flaring in her chest, but it faltered when his head snapped to hers, hazel eyes locking to her own. She swallowed, watching as beads of rain soaked his skin, dripping from the curls that crowned him, now jet black in the rain, and trailed slowly along his skin. His eyes skimmed across her face. 

“What’s that they say about black pots and kettles?” A smile curved his mouth, his voice low and soft, no edge of an argument to it. Anne felt the fight had left her; dissolved away with the droplets that dappled against her skin.

“I’m not stubborn,” she answered, her voice dropping to a whisper as Gilbert seemed to lean forward, Anne’s pulse quickening as grappled with the desire follow his lead; to allow him to near her, so close that their breaths mingled, his warming her cheek like a phantom touch of a long lost lover.

A slow smile spread across his face as Anne felt something cold press against her palm, her fingers curling around it. “Why do I feel like I’m about to meet my maker?”

Anne glanced down, tearing her eyes from him to see that he had placed the key in her outstretched hand. She felt a nervous flutter of butterflies in her stomach as she met his eye again. “Now who’s the pot calling the kettle black?”

Gilbert laughed, a breathy huff of air expelling from him and sweeping over Anne, her skin tingling as it traced her. He drew back, feigning to bless himself, eyes cast upwards as he pressed his hands together in the pretence of a prayer.

“Please, God,” he lamented. “I’m still young. I have so much left to see.”Anne poked at his ribs playfully, one finger jabbing into him as he yelped. “Ouch!”

“That’s what you get, doc,” she teased. “For being so insolent.”

He rounded the car, climbing into the passenger seat as Anne took her place behind the steering wheel, stretching her legs out towards the pedals and finding them a little out of her reach. She adjusted the seat, sliding it forward.

“Just how long are your legs?” she questioned with a laugh as she ran her hands over the steering wheel, fingertips ghosting over the buttons and dials, familiarising herself with them.

It had been so long since she had driven and she was unsure now to why she had insisted she would take over for a while. It had been years since she was last behind the wheel of a car, Matthew taking her out for practice lessons when she was seventeen, where Anne slowly manoeuvred around a deserted car park as he gently encouraged her from the passenger side.

“Nice and steady,” he would say as she pressed onto the accelerator, the car beginning to move slowly forward, Anne habitually moving through the gears before slowing once more, Matthew turning to her with a small smile.

“Well now, we’re getting better at that.”

Anne would have beamed at him, her chest swelling at her accomplishment. She passed her test on her first go, Diana and Ruby squeaking with excitement as she offered to take them for a spin, driving the coastal route along the cliffs outside of Avonlea and stopping for a picnic. She stopped driving soon afterwards when she moved to Charlottetown for school, taking the car out once in a while during summer break. She stopped driving completely when Matthew passed; his scent still lingering in the little navy-blue car, the indentation of him in the driver’s seat too much for her to bear. So she bought herself her beloved bicycle, never needing to stray too far from Avonlea anyway, and the car laid unused in the driveway for close to another year until Marilla had stopped by the window one day, looking out at the rusting vehicle and saying, “I think it’s time we sell it.” Anne agreed.

She heard driving was like riding a bicycle; that it was like muscle memory, feet pressing at pedals, hands thrusting through gears. Her hands found the steering wheel, fingers lightly tracing around the leather as she felt Gilbert’s eyes rest on her.

“You’ve driven a manual before, right?” he questioned. Anne scoffed, straightening her back and hoping she appeared confident, despite the fact she felt as though she was quaking.

“Yes,” she insisted, her eyes finding him in a fleeting glance before dropping back to the steering wheel as she shoved the key into the ignition. She sucked in a breath. How hard could it be?

She twisted the key, a triumphant smile illuminating her face when the engine roared to life beneath her. Well, at least she’d done one thing right. She pressed into the clutch, humming to herself as she adjusted the mirror and switched on the lights, two pools of yellow slicing through the gloom. Gilbert felt his lips lift into a smile as he watched her, a flick of her wrist turning on the window wipers before her hand fell to the gearstick. He jerked his knee away, conscious of how close she was.

Her hand pushed forward, a crunching sound audible as she moved the car into first gear, ripping her foot from the clutch. The engine spluttered, dying beneath them. She scowled, pressing her foot into the clutch and moving through the gears again. The car jerked forward as she twisted the key, the engine stalling once more. Anne groaned in frustration, her cheeks hot as she felt Gilbert’s eyes linger on her. Anne was certain that he was probably laughing at her. She went to twist the key again when Gilbert’s hand shot out, landing against her arm.

“Nice and steady, Red,” he soothed. “Take your time.”

Anne nodded curtly, ripping her eyes from his and back towards the steering wheel, Gilbert’s hand falling from her skin. She felt flustered, wiping one hand along her brow, pushing sodden strands of hair back from her face, before her hand found the key again, switching the car on.

“Now press into the clutch,” she heard him instruct, his voice low and steady. 

She did as he directed, tilting her foot and lowering the clutch.

“Good. Now move into first.”

Anne’s hand found the gear stick again, fingers gripping around it as she lurched it to the side and up. Her skin tingled unexpectedly as she felt something cover her hand, the heat of another human on her skin.

“Slowly.” His voice seemed so close Anne sensed she could feel it kiss against her ear as it swept along her face. She felt hot all of a sudden: his body too close, his hand too heavy against her own. She let him guide her, the gear stick sliding closer to her and upwards, Anne fighting the urge to look at where their bodies connected; her breath caught in her throat. “Feel that?”

She bit down on her lower lip, nodding, although in the moment she wasn’t sure what he was referring to. Whether he meant how her heartbeat seemed to increase tenfold. How her body suddenly seemed aflame with the touch of a hand. How he seemed to have the ability to move her through time, to a rain shower and a tree, hot hazel eyes locked to hers as he pressed her into the earth. How his lips parted, a hiss slipping from between them as his hand met her Titian tresses, and the sound seemed to awaken something deep inside of her; a fire low in her abdomen. How he said her name so softly it sounded like a prayer; something murmured on knees in a vaulted cathedral. A revered invocation from a sinner to reprieve his soul despite knowing he would commit the same transgression over and over again. It was only when his eyes slid to parted lips did she sense the weight of what might have happened; that if he gave her a sign she would have surged forward and closed the gap between them. Tasted him against her tongue. And it had all felt so right until it was wrong. He was _Gilbert Blythe_ ; she had always hated him. And more to the point, he hated her. The feeling would be fleeting; Anne offering him a hasty kiss like some Rumpelstiltskin type character from a storybook, and they both would come to realise that what was borne from a moment of magic would soon be a curse. It would have ruined him. It would have ruined them both.

“Good.” His voice was a low rumble, cutting across her thoughts and Anne found herself moving instinctually, her head twisting towards him to find his eyes on her, something akin to a smile curving his lips. “Now lift your foot from the clutch.”

She raised her foot slowly, feeling as though the air had been sucked from the car.

“Lower the handbrake.” She tingled as he guided her hand to the handbrake between them, Anne feeling his hand curl around hers as she thumbed the button and allowed it to drop. “And move.”

She pressed her foot slowly into the accelerator, hearing the car rev as she slowly edged them forward. She felt her chest swell, her face split into a great grin as she moved them, turning the wheel slowly in her hands.

“Oh my God, I’m driving!” she laughed. She felt dizzy with excitement, the feeling of being in control of the car freeing; she could take them anywhere. Here. Home. The world was at her feet.

“You are,” she heard Gilbert say beside her and she could hear a smile in his voice; a hint of pride permeating his words. She glanced across at him, a beaming grin splitting her face as her eyes met his; his smile widening, skin aglow beneath the streetlights. And then his expression faltered, his eyes sliding past Anne, seeming to land on something just outside the window, his hand reaching across to jerk at the steering wheel.

“Red, look out!”

“Gil!”

The impact was sudden, the crack of metal against metal as the car hurtled onto a kerb and crashed into a lamppost, the seatbelt across Anne’s chest wrenching her backwards; the jerk winding her like a punch. She felt Gilbert’s hand find her arm, his fingers press into her as he spoke, his voice urgent.

“Are you alright?” he asked, Anne’s hands coming up to cover her face, her heart beating wildly in her chest.

“Oh, Gilbert, I’m so sorry. I’m…”

“Anne!” Her head snapped to his at the sound of her name, Anne’s stomach fluttering queerly at how the single syllable that identified her sounded coming from his lips; softer, more beautiful. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to how he said her name. Gilbert’s brow furrowed with concern as Anne’s eyes met his. He slowed his words, his voice tight and desperate. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, her hands pressing against her heart to try and quell it’s hammering; thundering against her ribs like the insistent rhythm of a snare drum. His features relaxed and he let out a long breath.

“What was that?” he asked, Anne flushing at the question. He had distracted her, she realised, feeling heat burn beneath the surface of her skin. He had been watching her, his eyes lingering a moment too long.

“I don’t know,” Anne answered hurriedly, tearing her gaze from him and letting it fall to her trembling legs. She felt like she wanted to cry; from shock, from embarrassment. “I think I may have aquaplaned or something,” she mumbled, her throat sore as a lump began to swell.

“Not that, Red,” he chuckled and Anne felt the tension in her shoulders ease; a weight lift from her chest. She was expecting him to rage, to huff; to climb from the car and pace as far from her as possible. She recalled what Bash had warned him the day they drove into Charlottetown to meet Billy in his office. _For the love of God, don’t crash it._ But she had; mounting the kerb crudely and barrelling the car straight into a lamppost. But he wasn’t angry at her, the soft sound of his laughter a welcome relief.

“Then what?” she puzzled, worried that his question would be why she was watching him instead of watching the road. He swallowed, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face as his hand shot to the nape of his neck, brushing through the short curls there.

“You just…” His smile wavered, as though he was unsure whether what he thought had happened had occurred at all. “You just called me ‘Gil.’”

Anne’s mouth fell open as a blush coloured her cheeks, her eyes searching around wildly for something, anything, to look at that wasn’t him.

“Well, what’s wrong with that?” she shot. “You call me ‘Red’ all the time.”

“I didn’t…” He felt his brow furrow into a frown as he observed her, eyes fixed determinedly out the window. It had felt oddly intimate, having Anne call him by a nickname; something familiar about the use of a single syllable instead of two. He found himself wondering if that was who he was to her when she was thinking of him, if she ever did. For how long had he been ‘Gil’?

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” he continued. “You just caught me by surprise is all. You’ve never called me that before.”

There was a sincerity to his voice, something a little vulnerable that compelled Anne to look at him again, and she found he was smiling. It was minute, barely a smile really, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly, but it was a smile all the same, widening only when her eyes met his, his right cheek dimpling in the way it did, Anne imagining how it would feel beneath her thumb.

She frowned, unsettled by the thought that had just invaded her head. “Well, we’re _friends_ aren’t we?” she blurted, Anne imagining she needed to say it out loud to reinforce that fact in her own mind as well as his.

“Are we?”

His voice was low, a murmur, and despite being twisted away from him, her focus fixed on the road before her, she imagined she could feel it warm her; ghosting across her skin and causing her to shiver. She swallowed nervously, her tongue running along her bottom lip, finding her mouth suddenly dry.

“I think so,” she replied, forcing lightness into her voice; an over eagerness that made her cringe. “We’ve come this far together; I’d like to think I could call you a friend by now.”

Gilbert smiled, his eyes crinkling as his cheeks rounded. “Good,” he answered. “I’d like that.”

Anne nodded dumbly, somewhat hot and desperate for an escape from the confines of the car; from eyes that seemed to see into her soul. She fumbled for the handle, jerking the door open.

“I’ll go and assess the damage,” she squeaked, scrambling from her seat and into the rain, rounding to the front of the car. She could feel him watch her as she leant over the bonnet, peering through the darkness to inspect the damage, not daring to lift her head. Then a door slammed shut, and she could hear his converse splash through the puddled ground, a light suddenly illuminating the scene before her as he held out his phone, the torch switched on.

“Well?” he asked. “What’s the verdict?”

Anne ran her palm across the metal feeling for a dent, gladdened when she didn’t find one, although the paintwork was slightly scratched.

“I think it just hit the bumper,” she admitted, a sigh of relief expelling from her as he drew his hand away, the torchlight dimming, plunging them back into the gloom. “It doesn’t look like it’s marked.”

“Small mercies,” Gilbert laughed. “Bash probably would have murdered me.”

He walked back to the passenger door, Anne opening her mouth to insist he drive again, when he paused, fumbled for his torch again and crouched behind the car.

“What is it?” Anne called as he appeared, toeing at tyre on his side with his foot.

“Just one casualty. Looks like we’ve blown a tyre.” He glanced up at her, a reassuring smile to his face as she surveyed around her, wondering where they would go to get help now; they were in a strange town in the middle of nowhere, approaching late evening. “It’s easily fixed.”

He whistled as he wandered to the back of the car, lifting the trunk and peering inside, dropping their bags on the pavement beside him. He reached beneath the felt lining the bottom, a furrow to his brow as he felt the gap empty where a spare tyre should have been. He drew away, hoisting the bags back into the boot.

“It might have been a good idea for me to have checked there was a spare before we took off.”He chuckled darkly, dropping the lid shut with a slam.

Anne rounded on him. “There’s no spare?” she asked incredulously and he shook his head, leaning over the trunk a moment as he ran a hand over his hair, pondering their next move.

“Right,” he announced decisively. “I’ll head back into our friend’s place and see if there’s a garage around that’s able to help us out.”

He took off towards the café when a car drew alongside him, the window rolling down to reveal one of the patrons from the caféL the elderly man Gilbert recalled reading a newspaper.

“Seems you’ve gotten yourselves into a spot of trouble,” he called to Gilbert and Gilbert nodded his agreement.

“Yeah,” he replied. “We’ve blown a tyre out. Don’t suppose you know of anywhere around here we could get it seen to?”

The engine of the man’s car quietened and he climbed out, Gilbert trailing him as he paced to their car. He surveyed the scene, the car flush to the lamppost, balanced unevenly against the kerb. He toed at the flattened wheel before looping his thumbs into his belt.

“I suppose I could help you out, so,” he announced, jerking his head towards the road as his hand tugged at the wiry white beard that sprouted from his chin. “I own a garage a few blocks back. I could get the truck and tow you around but it would be morning before you could get it seen to.”

“Oh, no,” Anne insisted. “We don’t want to put you out. We can wait until morning.”

“You won’t want to be leaving it here.” He looked at them both pointedly. “Those parking wardens are devilish things. You’ll get yourselves a ticket.”

Gilbert’s hand rubbed roughly against his jaw, feeling the stubble beneath his palm. He glanced at Anne who looked back at him and shrugged. “Well, if it wouldn’t be any bother.”

“None at all, lad,” the man insisted, clapping Gilbert on the arm. “I won’t be fifteen minutes.”

He turned back to his car again before stopping, spinning to the two strangers drenched with rain. “I don’t suppose you two are from around here?” he called.

They both shook their heads.

“Do you have somewhere to stay the night?” he asked. 

Gilbert shook his head again.

“We’ll just stay inside the car,” he answered, nodding towards the abandoned vehicle.

“Not at all, lad,” the man insisted. “You can both come home with me. The missus and I would be more than happy to have you.”

“Oh, no,” Anne insisted, her arms coming up to wrap around her, body shivering with the cold. “We really couldn’t take you up on that. It would be too much.”

“Not a word of it.” He scrutinised them both. Gilbert’s t-shirt was wrung with water and hanging from his body; Anne’s legs were quivering, her hair clinging to her cheeks and shoulders. “You’ll catch your death in those wet things. A hot shower and warm meal would do you both the world of good.”

Anne and Gilbert’s eyes met, Gilbert’s brow raising in a question which Anne answered with a shrug. He turned back to the stranger. “That’s very good of you. Thank you.”

“Not a problem.” The man turned away before stilling once more, turning back to Gilbert and calling “lad” to him, beckoning him nearer with a hand. Gilbert drew closer, glancing over his shoulder towards Anne, who watched as he went, her arms tightening across her chest. He stopped before the stranger who dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“I suppose there’s a condition to my offer,” he stated, hand at his beard once more. Gilbert nodded anxiously. “The wife, see, she’s a Catholic.” He paused. “Practising.”

“Oh,” Gilbert murmured, uncertain to what the relevance was.

“She may not take too kindly to two unmarried folks under the roof.” He looked at Gilbert pointedly. “You _are_ married, aren’t you?”

Gilbert gulped at air, finding Anne, shivering in the rain and appraising their exchange with a curious expression. It would have been the second time she had been soaked through that day. She would catch a cold soon, spending the night with her wet clothes drying into her. He turned back to the man, his beady eyes scrutinizing Gilbert. Gilbert imagined anything but a ‘yes’ would have been the wrong answer.

He nodded. “We’re married.”

The man nodded curtly. “Alright, so,” he said and then he climbed back into his car and left.

Gilbert paced back to where he left Anne, a nervous gurgle to his stomach as she called out to him.

“What did he want?” she asked, following Gilbert’s cue and climbing back inside the car, out of the rain. He closed the door, raking his hands through his hair as he heard her chatter beside him.

“The more I think about this, the more I’m not sure this is a good idea. Does he look like Santa? Yes. Does that mean he won’t kill us? No, because Ted Bundy was kind of hot, right? And he still killed people and…. Gil?”

Anne’s brow creased as she surveyed him, yes flitting over him as she questioned what had him so quiet. “What’s wrong?”

Gilbert sighed. “They’re Catholic,” he answered, a burst of laughter exploding from Anne at his strained expression.

“Is that supposed to scare me? It’s not Ireland in the seventies.”

“No, Red. They’re _very_ Catholic. They think we’re married.”

The smile slid from Anne’s face as Gilbert’s expression altered, his eyes widening as he awaited her reaction; for her to laugh or to scold him or to rage.

She shook her head. “Why? Why do they think that?”

“Because I told him that we were.”

“And why did you tell him that?”

“I just…” His eyes fell to his hands, fingers picking at his thumbnail. “I was worried about you, is all. I thought you could be doing with a night’s sleep and somewhere to change.”

“So, you told him we were married?” Her voice seemed to rise and Gilbert flinched. It was delayed but this was the reaction he had been waiting for. She turned from him. “No.”

“Anne.”

“No way!” she cried, folding her arms across her chest as she scoffed, whipping her head around to him once more. “There’s no way anyone would think _we’re,”_ she gestured between them, “married. It’s ridiculous and it’s _not_ happening.”

“Why not?” he probed. “It’s only one night. That’s all.”

“There are some glaringly obvious indications, Gil.”

“Like what?”

“Like _this,_ for example,” she shot, raising her left hand to show it was bare. “That’s kind of a big giveaway.”

Gilbert’s brow furrowed, his eyes on Anne’s hand as she continued her rant, her words unheard as he remembered something; a gold band stowed in his pocket, hidden away from the eyes of his sister-in-law just that morning.

“They’ll believe us,” he interjected, Anne huffing out a disbelieving laugh at his words.

“Oh, really? And how do you suppose we convince them?” she asked, her words edged with annoyance.

“You could wear this, for a start.” Gilbert reached into his pocket and pulled the ring from the lining, holding it aloft between them. The emerald twinkled in the streetlights.

Anne felt herself freeze, a jolt of shock rush through her. She felt like his hand had just met her cheek in a short, sharp slap.

“Gil?” Her voice sounded strained; strangled. He was carrying a ring. He had been carrying a ring this whole time. Her mind raced with questions, assumptions, one beating past the others, coming out victorious; w _hy?_ It was obviously an engagement ring. Anne felt her stomach sink, swallowing the bile that rose like acid in her throat. “I can’t wear that.”

“Why not?” he asked, his eyes falling to the gem in his hands. His eyes slid to Anne and he found her staring at him, brilliant blue orbs glittering in the soft glow of the streetlamp. “Red, why not?”

“Because it’s bad luck,” she answered.

Gilbert chuckled lightly; a low, velvety rumble. “How is it bad luck?”

“Well, you know,” she began, a flush to her cheeks. “You aren’t supposed to try on someone else’s ring or you’ll steal all the luck from the marriage.”

Gilbert laughed and Anne’s brow furrowed. “You’re laughing now, but you won’t be in a few years when you’re miserable and I’ve all your good fortune,” she protested.

“I think people make their own luck,” he countered with a smirk. He slid from his seat, slamming the door and rounding the car to the passenger side. He stopped before Anne, opening the door as her gaze rose to him. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving in his throat, and slowly, with his eyes still locked to Anne’s, he sunk to one knee before her.

“Anne,” he began, holding the ring out towards her.

“Get up,” Anne shot hastily, her heart thundering in her chest, breath catching in her throat at the softness in his eyes; a dreamlike glow under the pale streetlight, twinkling like two fallen stars that had landed to the earth before her.

He laughed, shaking his head gently. “I’m trying to ask you something. Would you listen for a moment?”

“I know what you’re trying to ask me and I’m telling you to get up,” she argued but he stayed on his knee before her, catching her left hand in his. Anne gasped at the feeling of his fingers on her skin, rendered speechless long enough for him to begin his proposal once more.

“Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, will you _please_ do me the honour of becoming my wife?” He looked up at her, Anne staring down at him, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights; escaping the safety of the dark forest and running blindly onto a road. She felt her mouth go dry as she glanced between him, curls flattened with the rain, his t-shirt clinging to his body, and the sparkling gem between his thumb and index finger.

“For one night?” he clarified with a breathy laugh.

Anne’s eyes slid from the ring to his face and, against her better judgement, the voice inside her telling her this was a bad idea after what had happened in the park, that this would change things, she nodded. She watched as Gilbert’s face split into a grin; his features illuminating as he slipped the band onto her left hand with ease, the ring a perfect fit.

They both stilled, staring down at the twinkling gem that now adorned her finger. Anne gulped back, a strange flutter to her stomach as she raised her eyes slowly to find Gilbert’s gaze skate to meet hers, pinning to her like a magnet; warming her through like molten gold. He huffed a breathy laugh as his eyes flickered between hers, dropping once more to the ring upon her hand. It seemed to come to life against her skin; the gem greener, the band richer in hue. His hand brushed over her as if on instinct, his finger tracing the circle wrapped around Anne’s finger.

“Mrs Blythe,” he said, his voice so low Anne had to lean in to hear him.

“Yes?” she asked, barely able to hear her own voice above the beating of her heart.

He chuckled gently, raising his eyes to meet her again, a coy smile to his lips. “Will we collect our bags before our host realises we just got married in a car park?”

**********

Their host, a man who introduced himself as Stephen, drove them 15 minutes outside of town after towing the Mustang around to a derelict garage. Anne and Gilbert crowded in the cab beside him, turning into a narrow driveway lined with shrubs that led to a squat house; a cosy bungalow with a shingled roof and glowing windows. Stephen and Gilbert lugged their bags to the doorstep as Anne followed.

He opened the door with a brass key, calling out “I’m home” as Anne and Gilbert entered the hallway, heat washing over them like a wave.

“And just _what_ has taken you so long?” came a stern voice, a small, rounded woman appearing from a room at the back of the house. She stopped when she spotted the bedraggled visitors in the hallway, loitering by the door. “Oh, I _am_ sorry,” she mumbled as she approached, her voice dropping to her husband as she hissed, “Why didn’t you tell us we were having visitors?”

“Ah, my love, I met these two strangers on the road to Emmaus,” he explained, pressing a kiss to her full cheek. “They had a bit of an accident on the road and had nowhere to go for the night. I thought they could stay here.”

“Oh, of course,” the woman answered, holding out a hand in greeting. “I’m Lavender.”

The couple led Anne and Gilbert through to the kitchen, settling them at the table and pouring two steaming mugs of tea before disappearing to ready their room. Anne stood, the heat from the house causing her weather-worn legs to ache. She paced the kitchen, cradling her mug in her hand as she inspected a unit in the corner of the room, her fingers tracing over the spines of the clothbound books inside it.

“Anything interesting?” Gilbert asked, watching as she tilted her head, reading titles as she sipped at her tea.

“Not unless you’re into _Leviticus,”_ she whispered and they both snorted a laugh. “This is so strange,” she admitted, her voice low as she wandered back to the table, taking her seat beside him once more. “Remind me to never get into a car with you again, Gilbert Blythe. I think you’re a bad omen.”

His smile faltered a moment, eyes flickering across her face, before he forced it to return, quirking the corners of his lips. “It’s been an adventure though, hasn’t it?” he questioned.

Anne hummed; hand propped on her chin as she thought. “It’s been something alright,” she quipped sarcastically, turning towards him to see his face split into a brilliant grin as Stephen and Lavender came back into the room.

They set about making dinner, Stephen laying the table and Lavender drawing ingredients from the fridge, explaining, “It’ll be a poor supper tonight. We weren’t expecting guests.”

She went about slicing vegetables, turning to Gilbert and thrusting a bowl into his hands, a clutch of brown shelled eggs within it.

“I need a good strong man to crack those eggs for me,” she ordered, thrusting a thumb towards Stephen. “My own is as useless as a chocolate teapot.”

Stephen chuckled heartily, righting a knife on the table. “And I’ve told you before, my heart, I love you too much to subject you to my cooking.”

Anne watched as he went to his wife, slipped a hand around her waist and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, Lavender swiping him away and ducking her head to hide the petal pink blush that coloured her skin. “Stop it, you!”

She moved back to the worktop, instructing Gilbert as he lightly tapped an egg against the side of the bowl, thumbs splitting the shell, the golden yolk sloshing into it. “Good, now the next one.”

Gilbert worked carefully, his brow furrowed with concentration, Anne smiling as she watched him split each egg methodically, listening as Lavender instructed him to add pepper, herbs, following each direction she gave. He seemed awkward, uncertain, and Anne imagined he wasn’t much used to cooking, but soon the room was filled with the scent of frying bacon and tomatoes, cheese bubbling along the top of the solidifying egg.

“It looks delicious,” Anne admitted as a plate was set before her on the table, the others taking their seats around her.

“He’s a good one you have, Anne,” Lavender grinned and Gilbert blushed beside her, admitting he didn’t really cook. “Well, I’d start training him now then, before he ends up like that big lummox over there,” she laughed, winking conspiratorially at Anne.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Anne mused, as Lavender lifted a bowl of salad leaves and passed it across the table to Anne, catching her hand and turning it over to inspect the jewel that now adorned her left ring finger.

“My goodness, what a beautiful ring!” 

Anne flushed, drawing her hand from the woman’s grasp and hiding it beneath the table. 

“That’s definitely an antique,” Lavender babbled. “Must have cost a pretty penny.”

“It was my mother’s,” Gilbert explained. “It was passed to me by my father before he died.”

Anne stared at him, the ring on her finger suddenly weighing heavier, drawing her hand down towards the earth. It was an heirloom, something sentimental passed from a father to a son, and she was wearing it on her hand as they played a game of house in front of two strangers like two school children. A ring like that wasn’t supposed to be casually slipped onto the finger of an old school rival; it was meant for a girl with blonde curls and a winsome smile. It was meant for Winifred.

“Oh, how lovely,” Lavender chimed, shooting a look towards her husband who was chewing contemplatively. “Did you hear that Stephen? An heirloom. You know what they say about heirloom’s, don’t you?” she pressed, Gilbert shaking his head in answer. “Well, when a ring is passed from one couple to another, all the blessings and happiness from that marriage go with it. And I’m sure your parents were happy?”

Gilbert nodded, a smile splitting his face. “The happiest.”

“Well, now,” Lavender beamed. “And you’ve found someone to share that with.”

“I have.”

Gilbert’s hand found Anne’s on the top of the table, Anne sucking in a breath at the gesture, goosepimples rippling over her body at the unexpected contact. It felt oddly domestic, almost too familiar. She tore her hand away, Gilbert rounding on her with a startled expression, as though he had shocked himself with the gesture. Anne’s gaze fell to the table, skimming past Stephen, who watched her with interest, Lavender chattering beside them.

“And how did you meet?” she enquired. Anne glanced towards Gilbert, waiting for him to speak, but he didn’t, his eyes fixed to his plate, his mouth set. She let her fork fall to the table.

“We met at school, actually.”

“Oh, childhood sweethearts. How romantic.”

Gilbert’s laughter was sharp, Anne whipping around towards him. “Nothing like that,” he smirked. “Quite the opposite actually.”

Anne’s eyes were wide as they met his. Couldn’t he have just played along with the charade, she wondered, instead of dragging up all their dirty laundry to a group of strangers.

“Oh, sounds like there’s a story there,” Lavender egged.

“Not at all. It’s nothing special,” Anne replied.

“Nonsense!” Lavender laughed. “We love a good story in this house, don’t we my dear?”

Stephen nodded, turning back towards the startled pair seated at the table.

“We fought like cat and dog in school,” Gilbert laughed, smiling down at Anne as he remembered the little girl with the long red braids, not too changed from what she looked like now. Her skin still freckled and eyes still large; long Titian locks crowning her. “I pulled her hair once,” he continued, hand coming up to tug the end of Anne’s hair. “Called her _‘Carrots’.”_

Anne pulled the hair free from his grasp, cheeks hot at the memory. “Something you still haven’t apologised for,” she said hotly, Gilbert’s brow crumpling at the sharp edge to her words. “And then you continued to make my life a living hell for the remainder of my school days.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s not?” Anne asked, laughing incredulously.

“No,” he shot, becoming defensive as she seemed to attack him; her voice brittle and as cutting as shards of glass.

“And why was that?” she pressed.

“I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“Because I had a crush on you!”

Gilbert looked like he had been slapped as the words stayed suspended between them, Anne’s breath ragged as her eyes flickered over his. He hadn’t known where it had come from, the sentiment spilling from his lips before he had time to stop them. He always knew he was interested in her; curious about who she was and what she liked. He knew she was the last thing he thought of before he slept, and when morning dawned the next day, he dressed for school with her on his mind. He recalled the flurry of butterflies in his stomach, how it felt like something had been unlocked, when he wrote the love letter; bent over the paper, words pouring from the pen nib before he had time to process them. But he had never labelled it before. Not until now.

“You did?” Her voice was light, a whisper in the wind.

“I…” He paused; held his breath. And then he spoke again. “I did, yeah.”

“Aww now, isn’t that just lovely,” Lavender grinned and Anne felt herself blink, suddenly reminded that there were other people in the room. She had forgotten for a moment, lost in her memories of Gilbert standing across from her in Mr Lynde’s classroom, a self-righteous smirk to his face as he attempted to goad her. So different from how he looked at her now, his eyes soft, hooded; a myriad of jewelled greens coming together in a myriad of nature tones, like the crown shy trees from her beloved meadow. He looked at her like she had looked at the stars that night they lay together; like she was something to wish for.

But it wasn’t right. It couldn’t have been true. It was an act; a pantomime, and when the curtain fell, she would slip off the ring and he would place it on Winifred’s finger.

Dinner passed with polite conversation, Stephen and Lavender gushing about their son and the promotion he had just earned, Anne and Gilbert both avoiding looking at the other, and soon they found themselves retiring for the night, their hosts showing them into their room and wishing them goodnight.

Anne loitered in the doorway, watching as Gilbert paced across the room, drawing the old-fashioned net curtains shut across the window. He turned, hands on his hips as he surveyed the room. There was a dark wooden wardrobe in the corner, a fireplace positioned against a wall with an ornate mirror hung above it and in the centre of the room, a double-bed; chintzy lavender sheets pulled taut across the mattress and scatter cushions piled around the headboard, a framed photograph of the Sacred Heart staring at them from a gilded frame.

“So,” Gilbert said, speaking simply to fill the silence. “Which side of the bed do you want?”

Anne eyed him as he brushed at his neck, sat at the foot of the bed and drew a knee to himself, fingers unlacing his converse boots. She couldn’t be close to him tonight; it felt odd. Too intimate. Not after what he had said and how he had looked at her. Not when her heart still felt as though it could leap from her chest.

He stood once more, hoisting his bag onto the bed and unzipping it, drawing fresh clothes from inside; soft joggers and a loose t-shirt. He glanced up at her, scratching lightly at his scalp.

“How are we going to do this?” he asked.

“What?”

“Change.”

“I assume they have a bathroom?”

“I assume they do.”

“I’ll go there.” She grabbed her bag and flounced from the room, stopping just outside the door and listening as he moved about inside. She let her bag fall to the ground, sliding against the wall as her hands found her face. It was only one night, she assured herself. She could survive one night, and tomorrow she would be in a bed of her own and he would be somewhere else. She felt her stomach constrict; he would be with Winnie.

She lugged her case down the hall and into the bathroom, letting the water run from the tap, scooping it into her palms and cooling her face with it, then she showered and changed, blushing at the pyjamas she had packed in her case; a loose fitting nightshirt that barely grazed mid-thigh. She tugged at the hem of her nightshirt as she walked back to their room, hoping Gilbert would already be in bed, turned away from her so she could slip in beside him unnoticed.

Her hand found the handle, pushing the door ajar slightly and stilling when she spotted him perched on the edge of the bed, the skin of his back exposed, the muscle beneath his bare shoulders shifting as he tossed the scatter cushions on the floor before him. Anne felt her mouth go dry, her skin heating as she panicked, wondering whether to draw back out of the room and pretend she hadn’t seen anything or to make herself known. She decided on the former, stepping away when the floorboard creaked beneath her foot. Gilbert’s gaze shot to her’s, his mouth rounding in surprise as he jumped from the bed, covering himself with the t-shirt that was laying beside him.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, cheeks reddening at being caught. “I didn’t see anything, I swear.”

“Sounds suspiciously like something someone who did see something would say,” he replied with a strangled laugh.

“Well, I didn’t.”

She averted her gaze from him, pushing her case against the wardrobe and taking the opportunity of his back being turned to skip across the carpet and into bed, sliding swiftly beneath the covers and dragging them up to her chin as Gilbert yanked his t-shirt over his head. She didn’t dare glance at him as he drew back the sheets on the left side of the bed, climbing beneath them and huddling in, one arm propped behind his head. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling, willing he would sleep.

She could hear him sigh, yawn, and then he spoke. “Strange sort of wedding night, isn’t it?”

“What?” Her voice was strangled; brittle.

He chuckled softly; the timbre low and velvety. “I said, “It’s a strange sort of wedding night.” What other couple would find themselves underneath a huge photo of Jesus?” He glanced upwards at the mournful figure watching them from above the bed. “He kind of kills the mood.”

Anne felt her lips quirk, a burst of laughter escaping her as a breath. “I guess it’s what we deserve for lying.”

“I guess it is.”

They lay in silence again, Anne counting swirls in the stippled plaster above, listening to the rain patter lightly against the window; the rattle of wind on the glass. She heard the central heating gurgle as it came to life and the flush of a toilet from somewhere in the house. But all the while, there was no sound as loud as Gilbert’s steady breath and her own beating heart. She willed herself to sleep.

“Hey, Red?”

She swallowed. “What?”

“Today has been weird and I didn’t mean to make you…”

“What?”

“Well, uncomfortable, or anything.”

Anne stared ahead, feeling his eyes rest on her. Today had been confusing; Anne’s mind reeling as odd feelings floated to the surface, Anne wishing she could tie something to them, weigh them down and let them drift back into the depths of the parts of herself she never explored. Had he made her uncomfortable or had it just been the sudden urge she had to kiss him? The sudden desire to feel his skin on hers.

She sighed and rolled onto her side, turning away from him. “Goodnight, Gil.”

“Night.” He reached out for the light switch, the room plummeting into darkness.

Anne prayed sleep would take her; seconds of blinking into the darkness stretched into minutes, which soon became an hour, and Anne still lay awake, listening to Gilbert’s breathing; the rustle of the sheets as he moved, the mattress dipping beneath her as he turned from his back to his side and back again. She wondered if he was asleep but had an odd inkling deep within her telling her he was awake too. He seemed too restless, hands moving behind his head, Anne hearing them swish across the pillowcase, falling flat atop the quilt, the blanket tugging tight against her when he did so. She heard him sigh; the sound of stubble scraping skin, and all the while she stared into the blackness that cloaked them, spare for a single sliver of moonlight that crept through the curtain.

Another hour passed, and still she lay, feeling his heat beside her, imagining what he looked like when he slept, when a sound sliced through the silence that enshrouded them.

“Red?”

She felt herself inhale, holding the air inside her until it was painful, before she let it go, “Yes?”

“Are you awake?”

Her mouth quirked at the question. “No.”

She heard him laugh beside her; a warm, baritone chuckle.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” he whispered.

“Why aren’t you?”

She heard him sigh heavily, drag his hands through his hair, imagining him crossing his arms behind his head.

“I don’t know,” he said eventually.

“Neither do I.”

She shifted against the bed, rolling from one side to the other so she was turned towards him, her eyes tracing over his dark silhouette; arms behind his head like she thought they would be, his slim nose pointed towards the ceiling, the angle of his strong chin and the swell of his Adam’s apple in his neck, sloping down to his toned chest. He dropped his head towards her, Anne catching the flicker of a smile on his face in the crack of moonlight.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked her and her shoulders lifted in response.

“Nothing, really,” she replied, but could sense his brow furrowing; the next question forming on his lips. If it was nothing, then why was it coming between her and her sleep. To that she couldn’t give him an answer. “And everything.”

“Sounds heavy.”

“It is.”

He pressed his lips together, curling onto his side so he was facing her, his eyes level with hers, warm breath sweeping across her skin. His hand fell between them, landing in the space that stretched from her chest to his.

“Anything I can help with?” he questioned, listening to the satiny sound of silken hair against soft pillows, Anne shaking her head. “Are you nervous for tomorrow?”

Truthfully, Anne hadn’t thought of what tomorrow would bring. She had barely let thoughts of Roy enter her head, her mind clouded, spiralling with flashes of chocolate brown curls, messy in the breeze that blew through the window, and hands resting near knees, the contours of his skin like rivers sketched on a map. She thought of hazel eyes; warm tones mingling together to make a colour that was so distinctly his. She thought of the jut of his chin, and the dimple at the corner of his mouth. Of how, when she felt him against her, she imagined she could feel his heartbeat through her thin summer dress; that it was beating too fast.

But she couldn’t tell him any of that. She couldn’t admit that while she should be thinking of Roy, his catalogue model good-looks and charcoal tinted headshots she had appraised during a particularly slow day at work, there was someone else occupying her thoughts; this particular image unsettling, because it wasn’t right. She shouldn’t like him. She didn’t.

She lied. “Yes.”

“Do you need a distraction?”

Anne burrowed into the pillow, curling her legs upwards and stilling when she felt her calf sweep against rough skin, Anne’s leg skimming Gilbert’s. He didn’t draw away. Neither did she.

“What did you have in mind?”

“What about a game?” he quizzed, his voice low, Anne imagining the smirk to his face; his eyebrow quirking how it did.

She giggled softly. “I think we’ll run out of people to fuck, marry and kill soon.”

“What about something else?”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Ever played _20 Questions?”_

Anne snorted a laugh. “I’ve been to ice-breakers before, Gil. I’ve played _20 Questions._ And who knows, maybe I’ll find you’re boring enough to send me to sleep.”

“Hey,” he cried, feigning she had wounded him. “That cut deep, Red.”

He went quiet, thinking of something to ask her as she chuckled softly beside him. She was a shadow in the dark; a grey outline indenting on the mattress they shared, but he could envision her face; the smile that crinkled her nose, her eyes hooded, heavy with sleep.

“What’s your favourite TV show?” he asked, Anne nipping at her bottom lip as she thought of her answer.

“ _Golden Girls._ I watch it all the time with Marilla.”

Gilbert laughed. “Good choice.”

“You?”

“That’s not how this game works, Red.”

Anne shrugged lightly. “I know, but what’s the fun in a one-sided conversation?”

“Fair enough.” He was silent for a beat before saying, “ _Blue Planet_.”

Anne pondered on his answer. “Hmm, I think that suits you.” She rubbed at her stinging eyes before dropping her hand to the mattress once more. “When’s your birthday?”

“August 17th.”

“Hmm,” Anne hummed. “A Leo? Interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?”

“It explains why you were always so arrogant.”

He could hear the lilt of laughter in her voice, smiling as he remembered the insult she would have used so often in school; _arrogant, hubristic, narcissistic._ He wondered if she still thought of him like that.

“When’s yours?”

“March 5th.”

“And that makes you…?”

“A Pisces,” she announced.

He hummed, pretending to analyse the answer she had given him. “And that explains why _you_ were always so insufferable.” She giggled, Gilbert taking the opportunity to ask another question. “Favourite book?”

“ _Jane Eyre._ You?” Gilbert opened his mouth to answer when Anne cut across him, a hiss of excitement in her voice. “No wait, let me guess this one… _This is Going to Hurt_ by Adam Kay.”

“No.”

“No?” she gasped, a laugh to her voice. “But you’re a doctor. All doctors are supposed to love that book.”

“Not this doctor.”

“Well, what is it?”

“ _Leaves of Grass_.”

Anne pushed herself up onto her elbow, staring down at him.

“Poetry?” she asked disbelievingly.

“What’s wrong with that?”

She flopped back onto the mattress, rolling onto her stomach and tucking her hands beneath her chin.

“Nothing,” she declared. “I just didn’t have you pinned as a poet.”

He laughed. “Not a lot of people do.”

Anne remembered what he was like at school; always swaggering, a little cocky. This came as a surprise, seeming to juxtapose completely with what she thought she knew and remembered of him. She found her mind wandering to her letter once more, imagining it had been him who wrote it for the second time since she had unearthed it from the trunk. She felt her brow furrow, nestling her head further into her pillow; if it was him, he wouldn’t be here with her, whispering to her in the dark.

“Why that book?” she heard herself ask.

“It was my dad’s favourite.” He lifted his shoulders into a shrug. “I guess it’s sentimental.”

Anne smiled at him. “Your dad’s favourite book. Your mum’s ring. I think you’re a bit of a softie at heart, Gilbert Blythe.”

He chuckled; a soft snort of laughter escaping him, as Anne curled onto her side again, letting her hand slip between them and whether it was intentional or not she wasn’t sure, their hands too close in the dark, but she could feel his finger brush against her, a featherlight touch to her skin. She drew her hand away.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” she asked.

“About what?” he puzzled.

“The ring.”

The silence was long drawn, Anne hearing him raise his hand, rake it through his hair. She could feel a slow breath against her skin as he exhaled. He shifted onto his back, Anne seeing the bulb in his throat move as he swallowed. He ran one hand along his jaw, feeling the knot where it clenched, before relaxing it, letting his hand fall.

“I suppose it’s the right time.”

“Oh.”

She knew what his answer would have been; knew that people didn’t carry their mother’s engagement ring around, stowed away in a pocket, without having a use for it. But hearing him say it made her heart sting queerly; something deep within her twist, the reaction so strong, so startling, it almost drew a gasp from her lips.

His head rolled to the side, his eyes flickering over her form. “Do you ever want the world to just _stop_ for a moment, Anne?”

The question came unexpectedly, Anne hearing something despairing in his voice. It didn’t sound like the voice of someone about to embark on one of life’s greatest journeys with the person they loved at their side, sealed together by an emerald green ring. Instead, it sounded like someone lost, tripping into the centre of a forest before dusk and unable to find their way back, each path seeming to appear closed off, shrouded with shrubbery and darkest night; Anne finding herself there all too often, crying out for help from someone who never appears. Willing for daybreak that doesn’t come.

She released the lip she had caught between her teeth, eyes raising to where he watched her. “All the time.”

“Why can’t it?” he whispered. “Just stop a second and let us catch our breath.”

“Because, I suppose, despite all the heartbreak and hurt, life goes on.” She watched as he turned back to the ceiling, his eyes flickering across the moulded patterns; head racing with thoughts she wasn’t privy to. “We keep living in spite of it all.”

“I think I’ve forgotten what it feels like to live.”

There was a hollowness to his voice; his words as empty as the feelings that prompted him to say them. She reached out and touched him, his hand coming up to cover where hers rested on his arm. She sucked in a breath.

“Me too.”

He shifted onto his side, cradling her hand in his as he caught her in a sliver of moonlight, her eyes staring back at him like two shimmering stones alight in silvery starlight.

“But I feel it sometimes,” he murmured, his gaze sliding to her lips, resting there for a beat too long. 

Anne felt that same flurry of butterflies that had awoken in her stomach that morning burst back to life. 

His eyes slid back up her face, honeyed hazel locking to brilliant blue. “With you.”

Anne felt like the air had been sucked from the room, the hairs on her body standing erect as his eyes remained trained on her. She drew her hand away hastily, rolling onto her back to put some distance between them, certain he would hear her thundering heart.

“Hey, Anne,” he whispered.

She swallowed; her body suddenly starved of oxygen. “Yes?”

“I’m really sorry for what happened in school.”

“Don’t be,” she urged, her cheeks reddening at the panic she could hear in her voice. “It was a long time ago.”

“But we could have been friends, Anne.” She could feel his eyes still on her, a gravelled rasp to his voice as he spoke. “We _should_ have been friends.”

He sighed heavily. Anne listened as the sheets rustled, the quilt lifting ever so slightly, allowing cool air to kiss her upper arms before they fell flush again. She glanced towards him; his back turned against her. Anne followed the curve of him with her eyes, tracing over the ridges in his spine.

She listened as his shallow breathing deepened, Anne hearing him inhale, breathing hot air out through his mouth, a question racing through her mind.

She turned towards him once more, her body matching the curve of his.

“Gil,” she whispered but he made no sound to indicate he had heard her. No movement to show her he was still listening.

“What you said earlier,” she pressed. “About having a crush on me?”

She waited again for a response that didn’t come.

“Was it true?”

She traced the slope of his shoulders, the bend of his back, and just as she began to spin away, to turn her back to him and settle into sleep, wrapping the sheets around her, she could have sworn she heard him whisper.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are!
> 
> If you noticed any LJZ Easter eggs, they are completely intentional. I like to weave our wacky spaceman into this Gilbert. 
> 
> Also, the painting Anne reminds Gilbert of is 'The Lady of Shalott' by John William Waterhouse, I believe. The painting is an artistic interpretation of a poem of the same name by Lord Alfred Tennyson which is, of course, inspired by Elaine that Anne references in Anne with an E. I like to work in little Easter eggs when I can but I'm not sure that one was very obvious, so here I am explaining it! Haha!
> 
> Also, yes, I did 'Leap Year' you all. How else was I supposed to get a ring onto Anne's finger and these two kids into bed together? I remember saying to someone before that this fic is a Hallmark movie because it has ALL the clichés, so why not add in a sprinkling of bed sharing too, huh? 
> 
> I think I've said this before, but I'm Irish and over here we have funny little superstitions about things, especially weddings and engagements. The superstition about wearing someone's engagement ring before they do is real. Some people, including myself, believe that one (I'm not superstitious but I am a little stitious) Also, the superstition of passing a ring that's an heirloom on is also one we have here and I think it's pretty cute! 
> 
> Again, apologies for the lateness in updating and for feeding you another 'filler' chapter. (Note to self: don't leave a chapter on an almost rain kiss again because the tidying up afterwards is messy and a little hard) This section is actually one of two parts that I thought was just too long to post in one go and the second half has been written and is currently with my beta, so should be ready to be shared fairly soon. Not too long until we all meet Winnie!
> 
> If you enjoyed this chapter, or have any feedback at all, please leave me a little comment. I really love to get them; they help me battle through my cursed self-doubt like a soothing balm. You guys are truly the kindest souls and I am so grateful for every hit, kudos and comment I receive.
> 
> Thanks again for reading, and why don't you come hang out with me on my socials! Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/chaos_in_calm), [Tumblr](https://beckybubbles.tumblr.com/) or drop me a question on writing, The Love Letter or life on [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.me/chaos_in_calm)! They're anonymous and a lot of fun to get!
> 
> Also, check out [The Avonlea Tales](https://twitter.com/theavonleatales) podcast if you'd like to listen to some more AWAE content (ya gurl might just be a host on it!)
> 
> Hope you're all keeping safe and well and I'll be back *very* soon!  
> Lots of love,
> 
> Becky x


	7. Chapter Six: 'Can you alter the fact that you are not wholly mine, that I am not wholly yours?'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne and Gilbert reach Toronto and are reunited with Winnie and Roy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again!
> 
> Yes, by some miracle I've stuck to my word and am posting a new chapter relatively quickly after the last was posted!
> 
> A huge thank you for all the love on chapter five! I say this all the time, but I am riddled with doubt over this story so I'm always amazed and so overwhelmed when people enjoy it and take the time to let me know they do!
> 
> A very big thank you to my lovely friend [Kara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashingwhitesgt/pseuds/dashingwhitesgt) for taking on the mammoth task of beta reading this (from her sick bed too, bless her!) Kara you're a star and I am so very grateful! 
> 
> This chapter title is from a letter from Beethoven to his 'Immortal Beloved'. 
> 
> Right-oh, I won't keep you!
> 
> And *action*!

Morning came quickly, a wash of golden colour illuminating the spare bedroom of the bungalow and the two figures asleep on the bed. Anne and Gilbert stretched out slowly, eyes opening to find the other facing them, their bodies a tangle of limbs beneath the quilt. Anne drew away, a flush to her face as Gilbert sat up beside her, wiping sleep from the corners of his eyes as he mumbled, “Sorry, force of habit,” with a sheepish smile.

Anne pulled the cover to her neck as she watched him slide from the bed, pad across the room, his hair wild, tousled with sleep, and collect his bag before heading to the bathroom to shower. She had pondered on what he said after he left. The room was silent and her heart was still beating a touch too fast. 

“ _ Force of habit.” _

She felt like she knew too much; she knew what he looked like when he slept beside Winnie, his body curved towards her, his legs twisted with hers like roots of a tree growing together. She felt a queasiness in her stomach, laying her hand low on her belly and reasoning she must have been hungry. She climbed from the bed and dressed.

They left soon afterwards, thanking Lavender for her hospitality as the woman hugged them both in turn, before they climbed back into the front seat of Stephen’s truck and drove back into town. Anne had walked back to the café as Stephen changed the wheel of their car, returning with a cardboard sleeve securely holding two takeaway cups.

“They only had filter,” she said, handing Gilbert a coffee before dropping three sealed sachets of milk and a couple of packets of sugar in his hand. “And I didn’t know how you take it.”

“Black is fine,” he replied. “No sugar. I’m sweet enough.”

She felt her mouth curve into a smile, remembering when she had said the same thing to him in his kitchen, back when they had begun this search. She wondered if that was why he had said it; the quirk of his mouth before he raised the cup to take a drink made her think it might have been.

Their car was ready ten minutes later and Anne waved to Stephen as she climbed back into the passenger seat, but Stephen stopped Gilbert just before he followed her.

“A nice girl you’ve gotten yourself,” he said, nodding towards Anne as he wiped oil from his hands.

“Yeah,” Gilbert replied, a small smile curving his lips as he watched her busy herself in the car; she unwinded one braid and retied it, throwing the thick rope of hair over her shoulder.

“Strange though,” he mused, “when a couple doesn’t know how the other takes their coffee.”

Stephen eyed Gilbert knowingly as Gilbert opened his mouth to protest.

“Save it, lad,” he said, clapping Gilbert on the shoulder. “She’s a good one and it’s obvious you have feelings for each other. I’d say next time you put that ring on her finger, you do it for real.”

Gilbert stumbled back to the car, sinking beside Anne with a dazed look to his face. Stephen had known, Gilbert realised. He had known all along.

“What did he want?” Anne asked, a crease on her brow as Gilbert’s head snapped to hers, his eyes roaming over her features for a moment, his heart thundering as Stephen’s words echoed in his head. 

“ _ It’s obvious you have feelings for each other.” _

He turned away, his eyes focusing on the road ahead. It wasn’t true; he had Winnie and Anne was looking for someone of her own. He gulped, his throat dry despite the coffee that had just lubricated it.

“Nothing,” he replied. “He was just wishing us a safe journey.”

They had driven for hours, the morning warming into a hot afternoon which became more golden as the evening approached. Anne was at Gilbert’s side, her face illuminated with laughter as she wound the window down, the breeze that rushed by the car caught loose tendrils of her Titian tresses, the strands twirling through the air as Anne attempted to tuck them back into her braids. She sang, her head tilted to the clouds, her full mouth forming the words to  _ ‘Ahead by a Century’ _ and arguing with Gilbert when he stopped at another garage. He had darted into the store to buy another bottle of water to combat the heat of the day and then went back in to use the dingy toilets around the back of the gas station.

“We wouldn’t have to keep stopping if you could just hold it like a normal person,” she grumbled and he laughed.

She slept briefly and stared through the window as she spoke to him about random things: books she enjoyed, shows she was watching, why she would rather be too cold than too hot. He smiled as he listened to her, laughed as she joked.

“Here’s another one,” she said and he raised an eyebrow questioningly. “What did Batman say to Robin before they got in the car?”

He chuckled, shooting her a look from the corner of his eye as his mouth curved into a smile. He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“’Robin, get in the car.’”

He snorted a laugh, listening as Anne giggled next to him.

“Can that even be considered a joke?” he questioned and she shrugged.

“It made you laugh, didn’t it?” she countered. He nodded. “So, I suppose it is.”

And all the while, as the road stretched before them and towns melted away into suburbs on the outskirts of the city when Toronto emerged from the horizon, he had watched her. He had watched the sunlight dappling against her skin like an aura, a halo. It was something that set her apart from mere mortals and made her appear like a heavenly thing, fiery hair aflame with a kiss from the sun.

He reflected on their conversation from the night before, how he felt like he had opened up to someone for the first time, surprised to hear she felt it too. Like she was lost. He had glimpses before, his instincts telling him Anne hid herself away, but when she was with him all he could see was how exuberant she appeared: bright and vivacious, with a wide smile and laughter that rang like a windchime. He thought it strange that she could be two people at once, but then so could he.

They hadn’t spoken about it again, what with Anne being eager to get onto the road and drive. “We’ll never make the party at this rate,” she had claimed when he had stopped again to fill the tank with gas.

“It’s fine, Red. We’ll make it.”

But as Toronto neared, high rise buildings taking shape against the vista, he willed it away. He wished he could slam his foot against the break and stay where they were, locked inside the car together, where there was no pressure or decisions to be made. Where there was just Anne and Gilbert, and everything else melted away.

She gasped as they neared the centre of the city, in awe of the wide, tree-lined streets and how the old and new seemed to fuse together in what should have been a jarring contradiction: historic buildings with pediments decorating the windows and walls contrasting with glass fronted sky-scrapers, the chrome structures glinting in the sun. Gilbert glanced at her as she watched people on the pavements go about their day, exclaimed as she pointed out something new, the pale-green coned roof of the Gooderham Building or Queen’s Park as they drove out of the city centre and entered Yorkville.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked, laughing as she turned to him with wide eyes.

“I’ve  _ never  _ been anywhere so busy before.”

He chuckled at her answer. “Is that all?”

Anne turned back towards the window. “It’s so much bigger than I imagined,” she said wistfully. “I’ve never been too far from Avonlea.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He watched as she stared through the window, the city passing in flashes of red brick and sandstone and gleaming glass.

“I imagine it would feel lonely, living somewhere like this,” she murmured suddenly, almost to herself, and Gilbert sucked on his cheek, feeling something inside himself twist, like the blade of a knife being lodged deep within him. Anne’s observation had been too close to the truth. He  _ was _ lonely when he was here, wandering the halls of the library or the apartment he shared like a ghost, unseen and unheard.

“Yes,” he said. “I imagine it does.”

They drove past Queen’s Park, Gilbert pointing out the direction of the University of Toronto.

“And St George’s campus is just down there,” he explained, Anne nodding as they sped past streets and a long stretch of park.

They turned on to St Thomas Street, large cream paving stones laid against the tree lined paths, bright green spruces reflecting off the windows of the tall apartment buildings occupying the street.

“And this,” Gilbert announced as they slowed by one of the buildings, “is home.”

“Huh,” Anne replied, eyeing the building from inside the car.

It stretched skyward, layer upon layer of tinted windows and chrome stacked atop each other, broken up with smooth sandstone. There was a balcony to each floor, glass marking each resident’s area, their own little patch of the Toronto skyline, some filling theirs with potted plants or wrought iron bistro tables, others with a long bench below the window and a wicker coffee table that they sat at as they watched the sun rising over the city.

There were stone flanked flower beds around the front door, filled with low growing shrubs that Anne stopped by after they had parked their car in the resident’s car park and carried their bags to the doorway. Anne found the polished placard bearing Gilbert’s address on the wall.

“It’s fancy,” she admitted. 

Gilbert glanced at her with a sheepish smile. 

“It’s fancier than I was expecting.”

They were greeted at the reception desk by a concierge, where Gilbert became caught in conversation by the man behind the desk. Anne spun, head raised to the vaulted ceiling before dropping her gaze to the modern fireplace against the wall of the airy foyer. Milk chocolate coloured sofas were arranged before it, the suede plush and expensive.

“You have a  _ doorman? _ ” she hissed as he led her to the elevators that took them to their apartment.

“Rollings? He works the desk.”

He seemed distracted, on edge. There was tension in his shoulders that he worked at with one hand as they waited for the elevator doors to open, Anne feeling uneasy beside him. They heard the cranking of the pulley behind the sealed doors before them, the sound of something moving within the shaft, and then they drew open and Anne and Gilbert stepped inside, the foyer disappearing from view before them.

It was tense inside the elevator, Gilbert’s foot tapping against the floor as he watched the number displayed above the door climb higher and higher as they ascended. Anne held her breath beside him, until, eventually, they came to a stop.

“This is it,” he said, and his eyes found Anne’s, a flicker of a smile quirking at his lips, before the doors pinged open and he stepped into the tiled hallway. Anne stared after him, wondering why he seemed more nervous than she was. Like he had more to lose.

He led them down a wide hallway, the walls painted a fresh cream, the long windows flooding it with light. Anne counted the doors they had passed: one, two, three where Gilbert stopped and fumbled in the zipped compartment of his bag, drawing a bunch of keys from inside, a small picture of Dellie and Elijah hanging from it as a keyring.

“That’s cute,” Anne observed.

He smiled at the image, sliding the key into the lock and twisted it, the door giving way with a click. “Go on ahead.”

Anne entered the apartment first, her head spinning as she took in her surroundings: a long, marble tiled hallway that led to an open plan living space, glossy cream counters with a black, marbled top to one side, a glass topped table surrounded with suede tub chairs stretching the length of the window. She heard him drop his keys onto the table by the doorway, the rubber soles of his shoes squeaking as he followed her up the hallway. Anne glanced back at him in disbelief.

“This is a  _ palace _ compared to Avonlea,” she laughed, running a hand along the back of the low set sofas that were arranged around a plasma television and taking in the woven prints on the wall. There was a bookcase to one side, a few hardback volumes stacked neatly, small succulents and framed pictures peppered on the shelves. Anne walked towards it, reading the titles on display: a copy of  _ Milk and Honey  _ by Rupi Kaur,  _ The Life-Changing Magic of Not Giving a F**k,  _ the spines still smooth. Anne frowned. They were books to display on a coffee table to act as a conversation starter when guests came to visit. They hadn’t been read. She scanned the photographs: a sultry shot of Winifred eyeing the camera, one thumb pressed against scarlet red lips, another of her and her parents grinning together. Anne looked for Gilbert but couldn’t find him. She couldn’t find him anywhere in the apartment; no shoes kicked below a sofa or bag slung in the corner with the promise of putting away later. No quirky print displayed or medical textbook on the coffee table.  _ It’s a show-home _ , Anne thought. It was the type of home that anyone could occupy but leave again just as easily, parting with no trace of them ever having been there to begin with. No unfinished DIY project, or splash of paint as a feature wall. No wallpaper that they would come to regret. This apartment was stylish: fresh creams and coffees, pale ivory on the floor, but it lacked personality. It lacked Gilbert.

She heard him sigh behind her, spinning to see him by the sofa, his hands shoved in his pockets as he scanned the room. His eyes eventually landed on Anne, a sheepish smile to his face.

“I’d take Avonlea any day,” he said, a mournful look to his eyes that winded Anne. She wanted to go to him, to hold him close to her, but she was drawn away by the sound of a door opening.

The humming of a voice came down the hall that led from the living area, someone calling, “Gilbert?”

Anne stilled as Winifred appeared before her. A look of surprise materialised on Winifred’s face as she spotted Anne at the bottom of her hallway, her braided hair and denim cut-off contrasting with the chic surroundings. She approached slowly, every bit as beautiful as her photographs showed her to be.She was tall, much taller than Anne; her height almost equal to Gilbert’s, with long and willowy limbs. She was statuesque, a model that would be printed in catalogues or splashed on billboards; slim hips and small breasts, creamy white skin, but her brow was creased, a questioning look to her pale blue eyes.

She stopped before them, head tilting towards Gilbert as he cleared his throat.

“Anne, this is Winifred,” he said, pacing the tiles until he was beside her. “And, uh, Winifred, this is Anne.” He seemed to inhale, his hand brushing at his neck as he glanced towards Anne, a smile quirking at his lips. “An old classmate and, uh…” His smile widened. “Friend.”

Winifred extended a hand, Anne staring down at it, hesitating a moment before taking it in her own. Her hands were cold and narrow, with long elegant fingers. Anne imagined the ring that she had slipped from her finger as they drove from the garage on Winnie’s hand, the beautiful emerald paling in comparison to the woman that wore it. She looked up, Winifred’s smile serene.

“Nice to meet you, Anne,” she grinned. “Do you spell it with or without an ‘e’?”

***********

Gilbert sat at the end of the bed he shared with Winnie, one foot drawn to himself as he unlaced his converse. 

Winnie chattered from the ensuite bathroom, the door ajar and room filling with the perfume of jasmine soap as the shower switched off and the door sealed shut.“I swear, you  _ never  _ answer your phone. I didn’t know when to expect you and wasn’t sure when to ask for someone to come and make up the spare room. I’m  _ mortified. _ She must think I’m a  _ terrible  _ hostess.”

“Don’t be silly,” he replied, glancing towards the doorway as Winnie emerged from the steam, a towelling robe wrapped around her. “She doesn’t care about things like that.”

“But I do,” she pouted, nearing the bed and running her hand below his chin, drawing him to his feet. She pressed a kiss to his lips, drawing away to appraise him. “You look different.”

He huffed a self-conscious laugh, jerking back from her and towards the wardrobe, kicking his shoes into the bottom of it and pushing the door closed. He could feel her eyes on him, could sense the scrutinizing glare to them as she inspected him for the change she suspected she saw.

“It’s your clothes,” she said eventually. “You look like a farmer.”

He laughed hollowly, turning towards her. “I  _ am  _ a farmer.”

“You’re a doctor,” she reminded him and then she sat on the bed, a coy smile playing on her lips. “And you’re about to be much more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have some news,” she announced, crossing her legs and leaning forward on her elbow, chin propped on her hand. Gilbert felt his stomach drop as he eyed her from across the room, his sweaty palms curling into fists. “Daddy has spoken to his friend Emily Oak. Do you remember her?”

Gilbert nodded, remembering meeting the woman once at the Rose’s house. She was a broad-shouldered woman, with a hearty chuckle and she had been interesting to listen to. She was at the top of her field, Gilbert had been told afterwards. A surgeon; the best in Canada. He frowned at the significance of Winnie’s father haven spoken to her.

“Well,” she continued. “She’s just agreed to take you onto her graduate programme, Gilbert. Can you believe it?”

She stood, moving towards him once more, Gilbert numbed as she wrapped her arms around him, drawing him close in a hug.

“Everything we wanted is finally happening,” she whispered into his ear. 

Gilbert felt himself swallow; felt the colour drain from his face. He felt like he needed to see Anne.

“I know it’s long,” he heard her say, her mouth close to his ear. “Two more years training and four specialising, but we’re in no hurry. I have my work. You have yours. It’s not like we’ll be rushing to have children after we’re married or anything. What do you think? Isn’t it amazing?” Winnie broke their hug, frowning as a hand came up to his head, running through his hair. “That’s what’s changed,” she scolded. “Just  _ what  _ have you done with your hair?”

She left soon afterwards having booked appointments at a salon for her event that night, standing in the doorway of their spare bedroom and insisting Anne went with her. Anne protested politely.

“Oh, it would be my treat,” she pouted. “I’ve never met any of Gilbert’s friends from home. You must have a repertoire of embarrassing childhood stories.”

Anne glanced at him, a knowing smile to her face when she spoke. “I have a few.”

And then she was whisked from the bedroom and out into the hall, Winnie bundling them into a cab on the street and into the city centre leaving Gilbert alone.

He paced back to his room, peeling off his t-shirt and stepping into the bathroom, switching on the shower. It had been a long day, and he had felt drained after driving for so long; his shoulders painful, a knot of tension twinging below the blade. He leant against the sink, his head dropping to his chest as he inhaled, raising his head again and staring at the reflection in the mirror. His face began to blur in the steam. He ran a hand over his hair, pushing it flat against his head like he usually did before lifting it, the curls springing forward from where he held them and falling softly against his forehead. He twisted one in his finger, the corner of his mouth quirking as the coil curled around his finger, Gilbert pulling it taut and then releasing it.

He paced back to his room, crossing the cream carpet and bending to his bag, something falling free from his pocket and rolling across the floor, stopping only when it collided with the leg of his bed, the emerald glinting green in the light. He stooped, lifted the ring between his fingers and let it fall into his palm, smiling as the image of Anne pulling it from her finger flooded his head.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure being married to you, Mr Blythe,” she had said, dropping the ring into his outstretched hand.

“And you, Mrs Blythe,” he’d replied, the band still warm against his palm; Anne’s heat lingering. He sighed, pocketing the ring, the jewel weighing heavy against his leg. The next finger it would be on was Winifred’s, he realised. He felt his spine go stiff.

“I think we must have broken some record,” she had quipped, a brilliant smile to her face as she spoke. “Married and divorced within 24 hours. I don’t even think Kim Kardashian and Kris Humphries could beat that.”

Gilbert chuckled lightly as he carried the ring to his sock drawer, placing it carefully inside and sliding it shut, before he pottered back to the bathroom.

After he showered, he walked through to the kitchen, washing the cups Winifred had left on the countertop and placed them back in the overhead cabinet. He turned, rested against the counter, wondering what he would do to kill time before Winnie and Anne arrived back. He walked to the sliding doors that led out onto the balcony and opened the latch, stepping out into the summer heat.

It had been awkward after he had introduced Anne to Winifred. Her eyes had been wide, flitting between Winnie and Gilbert, a stuttering introduction coming from her lips, and Winnie had insisted she came on a customary tour of the apartment. She pointed out the features of the house, the glossy tiled bathroom and the office, the desk neat and ordered, a floor to ceiling bookcase taking up one wall. She led her through to their bedroom, the room light and spacious, Winnie pointing out design features, explaining to Anne that the artwork that hung above the bed was a gift from an English artist who knew her father, beaming with pride as she straightened it. Anne nodded politely, trailing after Winnie as she led her across the hall.

“This will be your room,” Winifred had said, opening the door to the second bedroom which was smaller, but still plushily furnished, everything inside cool greys and pale whites. Anne had walked to the centre of the room.

“It’s lovely,” she had said, turning back towards Winnie and smiling. “Thank you.”

Gilbert had eyed her as she took in her surroundings. He’d always preferred this room; it wasn’t as ostentatious, more muted in tone, and he wasn’t terrified to spill anything on the carpet. But it appeared as dull as the room he shared across the hall, all colour drained from it, as Anne stood in its centre. She was like a beacon of light; everything was dark until she neared it.

“Oh, goodness!” Winnie had cried and he tore his eyes from Anne to his girlfriend, panic in his chest at the thought of having been caught staring, but he hadn’t. Winnie’s eyes were on the bed, the quilt and pillows folded neatly, bare of any covering. “Oh, I meant to arrange for someone to come up and change the sheets.”

“It’s fine,” he had said but she continued.

“I’ll ring someone now.”

“Winnie,” he insisted. “It’s fine. I’ll do it.”

“You?”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “Me. I know how to change the sheets on a bed, you know. I’m not all useless.”

He had collected the sheets from the press, taking them back to Anne’s room and laying them on the bed. He lifted a pillowcase, stuffing a pillow inside and neatening the corners, Anne coming to the opposite side of the bed and doing the same.

“You don’t have to..” he’d begun to protest.

“I want to,” she had insisted, and so they made the bed together in silence, drawing the elasticated edges of the sheet down across the bare mattress and flipping the duvet inside its cover, smoothing it flat against the bed.

“Winnie seems really lovely,” Anne had said, but her voice sounded flat. 

He glanced up at her and something that resembled a smile flickered across her features. “Yeah,” he had answered, snapping his eyes to the sheet again; his heart thundering at the look on her face. It wasn’t possible, he thought. That flicker he saw couldn’t be disappointment. “She is.” He laughed lightly, gesturing around the room. “She’s a bit mad about this though,” he had explained, his hand coming to his neck. “The house tour is a little embarrassing.”

“No,” Anne asserted. “It was nice. It’s hard to picture you, though…” She shrugged as Gilbert met her gaze again. “Living here.”

Her mouth curved into a shy smile that he felt himself returning. “She didn’t even show you the best part of the place,” he said. “Would you like to see it?”

He led her through the apartment, past the low sofas and gleaming island and to the door that led to the balcony before he slid it open.

“After you,” he said, and Anne stepped out onto the tiles, gasping as she took in the Toronto skyline; the glorious green of Queen’s park below them, the CN Tower standing proudly in the distance.

“It feels like you could see the whole city from here,” Anne had marvelled, moving to the railing and laying her hands atop it. 

He’d come to stand beside her, smiling as he watched her stare out over the city. “Pretty special, isn’t it?”

“It’s wonderful,” she’d agreed, catching his eye as he observed her. “You have a whole city at your feet here, Gil.”

The corner of his mouth had quirked upwards and he turned out towards the vista, inhaling deeply as he stared over the scene. “And if ever I feel a little homesick, I just look over there,” he pointed out to the west, across shingled roofs and glass fronted office buildings surrounding them, “towards Avonlea and I think of what everyone is getting up to at home. Bash and Mary. The kids.” His mouth curved into a smile as he leant against the railing. “And sometimes,” he continued, his eyes darting to her for a moment to see she was studying him. “I’d remember this girl, back in Avonlea. Anne.” Anne’s face split with a grin, he felt himself returning. “She was a redhead. Fiery temper.”

She shoved into him playfully, Gilbert reaching out instinctually and catching her hand to protect himself. He heard her gasp, a sharp intake of breath, and his eyes slid upwards to meet Anne’s gaze, pools of twinkling blue locked to his. He felt like he could have drowned in it; there was something magnetic in her stare that compelled him to step forward, to narrow the gap between them.

His voice had dropped lower when he spoke again, his eyes flickering over her features as she seemed to pale before him. “And I’d wonder if I’d ever see her again.”

“You thought of me?”

He had swallowed, his eyes slipping down her face and resting on her lips, his mouth parting to answer as he met her gaze once more, when the sound of a door slamming wrenched them apart. Anne’s skin had been flushed pink, her eyes wild, and she announced she’d need to start getting ready as she escaped back through the door into the apartment.

He’d watched as she left, a flurry of red braids and blue denim, before spinning back towards Toronto, staring out over the vista towards the west; to where Avonlea lay, somewhere miles away from where he stood, a weight pressing into his stomach, something telling him this was all  _ wrong _ and he was being foolish. That he had to guide himself with his head; he had Winnie and he belonged here. He had just been accepted onto a graduate programme, and although he wasn’t sure it was what he wanted, it was a great opportunity, and he was expected to take it. But even as he forced himself to think it, he knew he couldn’t ignore how his heart seemed to speed up when Anne looked at him like that. How it felt like his breath had been stolen from him. It felt like two different versions of himself were coming together, battling inside of him, and he was tired and confused and wanted it to end.

He stood straight, his eyes closing as he sucked in a deep, steadying breath. And then he let it go. He went back to his room. He went back to Winifred.

He stood now, staring out over the same scene, the thought of Anne and Winnie in town together making his stomach curl. He wondered what they would talk about; what similarities they would find between them. He remembered telling Anne of how he had met Winnie, how she had charmed him and made him reminisce on a girl back home with large, blue eyes that normally regarded him with an edge of contempt. But Winnie had been easier to get to know than Anne; she had let him in, and soon he realised that despite those initial similarities, they were quite different people. Winnie moved in circles where image was everything, where words were chosen carefully and smiles were practiced in mirrors before she left the house. That never bothered her; it was the life she had chosen and she excelled at it, charming everyone she met with her easy wit and a grin that felt as though she held you in her palm for the briefest moment. 

But Gilbert felt disjointed from that part of her; disjointed from himself as she directed him in what he wore, or what side of her to stand on.  _ It’s been two years _ , he thought. Two years of being her boyfriend, of preparing to be something more, but he couldn’t shake the image that crowded his head, filling up the space until he felt he would explode. Despite spending two years lying by Winnie’s side, the closest he had ever felt to someone was a whispered conversation in the dark with a girl he had told himself he hated.

Gilbert sighed, drawing a hand through his hair and checking his watch. The girls would be back soon, he reckoned as he backed away from the railing and retraced his steps to his bedroom.

He hated nights like tonight. He hated flashes of cameras from tabloid newspapers and  _ mingling _ . He was never any good at it; he always seemed to say something wrong. He never felt like he fitted in around Winnie’s friends. All of them came from old money, some of them treating him like he was the poorer cousin; insisting, “I’ve got this, bud” when it was his turn to buy the round. Gilbert  _ had  _ money. He had worked hard through school: waiting tables, pouring coffees, anything that would get him away from the dingy university digs he had lived in during his first few years in the city. The wages he earned topped up what had been left to him in inheritance from his father. Even though it wasn’t a lot, he was comfortable. But he never felt that way in the company of Winnie’s friends. 

He crossed the carpet back to the wardrobe, and threw the doors open, staring in at the rows of pressed shirts: pale blue, white, and neatly tailored jackets with crisp shoulders. He ran a hand over the clothes, feeling the cotton and fine wool slip between his fingers, drawing out a tailored blazer and a shirt with a neat double collar and laying them on the bed. It didn’t matter what he chose anyway; Winnie would have him change when she arrived home.

He dressed slowly, buckling his trousers and sliding his shirt up over his shoulders, his fingers fumbling at the tiny buttons as he stared at his reflection. It felt like putting on a costume, slipping back into these clothes. He missed the comfort of his faded Levi’s and T-shirts that began to fade with wear over the years; old sweatshirts he had kept from his days at school. He looked the part, when he dressed like this. He looked like the boyfriend of Winifred Rose. 

But Gilbert Blythe felt lost under the layers of Ralph Lauren. 

Winifred and Anne arrived back a few moments later. Gilbert listened as Winfred’s voice neared him, her laughter pleasant as heels clicked up the hall. She was animated when she spoke, the type of enthusiasm she injected into her tone when a microphone was thrust to her lips, or she was creating content for the thousands of people who watched her every move. She sounded almost ingenuine compared to Anne, her tone low as she answered her.

He listened as they stopped outside the door, Winifred saying, “That was  _ so  _ much fun,” like she had just spent an afternoon entertaining a child and was now trying to pacify their excited chatter. 

Gilbert felt himself cringe.

“I’ll just get changed,” she said to Anne, “and then we’ll be off. Another forty minutes or so until the car arrives. You do have something to wear, don’t you?”

“I do,” Anne answered. 

“Perfect,” Winifred replied before she flounced into their room, the door swinging shut against Anne. 

Gilbert could hear the door to the spare bedroom close with a soft click.

“Are you  _ still _ not ready?” she asked him with an annoyed shake of her head. “The car will be here soon. What have you been doing this whole time?”

He didn’t answer, walking instead to the chest of drawers and pulling it open, drawing a pair of black socks from inside. He slid it closed and went to sit on the edge of the bed, unrolling the pair and slipping them onto his feet. He stood and turned to her, Winnie surveying him with a pensive pout.

“Change the shirt,” she suggested. “And maybe wear your other jacket. The navy one.”

“Right.”

He went back to the wardrobe as she disappeared into the anteroom to the side, a storage space that her father had arranged to have converted into a walk-in wardrobe. She came out again holding a dress bag aloft.

“This arrived yesterday,” she announced, hooking the bag to the top of the wardrobe and unzipping it. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

She let the shimmering blue silk fall between her fingers, a satisfied smile on her face as she lifted the bag again and returned to her wardrobe. He imagined her inside, rooting through her underwear drawer and drawing a basque from inside, something she insisted on wearing because it “neatened her waist”. Gilbert always shook his head when she said it. She was already so slender. He could picture her dousing herself in a cloud of Miss Dior _ ,  _ letting the perfume settle on her skin before slipping the dress over her head and letting it hang open at the back, fixing earrings to her lobes and encircling her wrists with bracelets before lifting her shoes, something high and strappy, and coming into the next room to ask him to zip her in.

And he was right, because not thirty minutes later, after he had changed, did she appear in the doorway, barefoot, her dress loose on her frame.

“Zip me up, will you?” she asked, coming to stand before him. He did, watching as she arranged it around her hips, smoothed her hair back from her shoulders. “What do you think?”

“Perfect,” he said and she caught his eye in the reflection. And she was. She was beautiful, the pale blue delicate against her ivory skin.

“I know,” she replied flippantly before screwing her face as she leant forward. “I just wish they hadn’t gone so heavy on the eyeliner.”

“You look fine,” he answered. “No one will notice.”

Winnie turned to him, a secretive smile on her lips as she answered. “You should see Anne. She is  _ beautiful. _ ” 

Gilbert felt his mouth go dry, his stomach seeming to flutter with butterflies of anticipation. He turned his back to her, fearful that Winnie would see a change in him; be able to tell that his heart was beginning to race. He began to busy himself, opening drawers and pulling out aftershave, the white gold watch Winnie had bought him last Christmas, all the while willing himself to relax, to breathe.

“She’s quite plain, you know,” Winnie sighed mournfully. “I imagined her prettier when you talked about her. I don’t think she’s Roy’s type  _ at all. _ ”

Gilbert froze at her words, a crease to his brow as he heard them echo around him. 

“ _ She’s quite plain.” _

That didn’t seem right. There was nothing plain about Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.

“And for heaven’s sake, Gilbert. Would you fix your stupid hair!”

Gilbert lifted the pomade from the drawer and unscrewed the lid, the tub almost empty from use. He took a comb and lifted it to his head, brushed it through a section of curls, watching them straighten beneath the teeth, spring back in an unruly mess. Then he scooped some pomade into his hands, rubbing the wax between his palms until it melted, lifting his hands to his hair. Hewent to smooth one hand across the glossy curls when he stopped. Let his hands fall back to the sink, washing the wax from them.

He glanced back up at himself, nodding at his reflection. It was a small act of defiance but, even though he wore clothes that felt like a straitjacket, he felt more like himself.

**********

Anne’s stomach bubbled with nerves as she surveyed herself in the mirror, turning to and fro in the dress she had packed. She’d borrowed it from Ruby for the annual office Christmas party that she and Ka’kwet had where they dressed up in the top floor bathrooms of their office building and went to a bar after work, staying late to grumble about Ted and Charlie over cocktails. Ruby insisted she had kept it when she went to return it, claiming the colour didn’t suit her anyway and so Anne brought it back home and hung it at the back of her wardrobe, unsure she would ever wear it again. Tonight seemed like the perfect opportunity.

She let her fingers skim along the soft satin material, drawing them across her stomach as she turned to the side and surveyed her figure in the dress. It was a shimmering champagne gold, soft and luxurious, and it skimmed her figure, dipping low at her back and coming to rest against her calves. It was a rare feeling, but as Anne surveyed herself, her hair lightly waved and swept over one shoulder, copper coloured eyeshadow buffed around her eyes making them seem bluer, she felt  _ beautiful _ . She felt like she could have been one of the girls in Roy’s photographs that she had looked at, laughing gaily as he led her from a nightclub.

“The car is here,” she heard Winifred call and she turned hastily, snatching the hard-shelled bag she had packed from the bed and racing towards her door, wrenching it open and barrelling into someone coming from the opposite room.

He caught her by the shoulders, steadying her on her heels as Anne’s eyes rose to meet his, a look of dumbstruck wonder to his face. He let his eyes skim over her, her form-fitting dress and delicate chain at her neck, the wave of red hair that spilled over one shoulder in great barrelled waves, her eyes the brightest blue he had ever seen.

“Anne,” he murmured. 

She felt her stomach flutter, a shiver down her spine sending thousands of goose pimples scattering across her freckled skin. 

“You’re…”

“Yes?”

She felt her heart swell as the Adam’s apple in his throat moved, his eyes flickering over her features.

“You’re…”

“Aren’t you ready yet?” Winnie interrupted, Gilbert drawing away hastily, one hand at his neck as he snapped his head towards his girlfriend, a flush to his skin. “We’re going to be late.”

She disappeared once more, Anne hearing keys being lifted from the table at the door as she kept pace beside Gilbert, moving through the apartment together. She felt dizzy from how he had looked at her, how his eyes had danced across her skin before he had pulled away, his eyes widening like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. Like they were growing too close.

She glanced up at him now, two spots of red still settled high on his cheeks, and as though he could feel her eyes on him, his eyes darted towards her.

“What?” he asked, an edge of uncertainty to his voice.

“Nothing,” Anne replied, tearing her eyes from him and fixing them ahead of her. “You just look different all dressed up”

He laughed lightly, and Anne found herself looking up at him again, the colour to his face deepening.

“But I like your hair,” she said. “You look like you.”

He seemed to slow beside her, Anne stopping and turning back to him. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, his face splitting into a grin that made Anne feel like she had just been caught in the glow of summer sun. A grin she felt herself return.

They walked to the elevator in silence, Winifred with her phone raised to her ear, a note of annoyance in her voice as she spoke.

“We’re going to be late now… No, he’s with me… Yes… He’s brought a friend.”

Anne flushed at the word, the same odd flutter in her stomach that she had felt the night before when they had laid side-by-side, Gilbert’s voice low and rich as he’d said, “ _ We should have been friends.” _

She had said it first, blurting it out in the car after she had accidentally nicknamed him, but it felt strange to call him a friend. She had friends, she knew what friendship felt like, and she wasn’t sure what she had with Gilbert was friendship. His gaze lingered a moment too long, hazel eyes enveloping her like a cashmere blanket on a cold day.

The elevator pinged open and Anne stepped in, Gilbert standing between her and Winifred and the doors rolled shut, trapping them together inside.

Anne felt a crackle of tension below her skin, her shoulders becoming stiff as she clasped her bag before her.  _ This is it _ , she mused. One down and the next to go, but she felt Gilbert’s eyes on her, the weight of his gaze, and suddenly it felt like the compartment was airless and Anne was struck with a strange moment of what felt like clarity, a veil lifting temporarily, something telling her this was a waste of time. It wasn’t Roy. She swallowed the thought; it had no substance, no fact behind it. Just a pair of hazel eyes she knew read poetry.

The doors pinged open and they stepped out into the foyer.

The drive into down felt long, although Anne imagined that they were only travelling about twenty minutes, the sleek black cab taking them through the city, flashes of yellowed light breaking up the evening, finally stopping outside an old stone building with a gaggle of people around it, a large structure like a crystal jutting from the side.

Anne heard Gilbert sigh beside her as the driver climbed from the front seat, walked to the side of the car and opened the door. She saw Winnie’s hand catch his, a grin illuminating her pretty features before she dropped it again and stepped out into the spotlight, shimmering blue dress luminescent in the flash of lights.

“Are you ready?” he asked Anne and she nodded, opening the door to the other side and climbing out onto the street.

It was noisy outside, the din of traffic and voices calling, “Here! Look over here!” and Anne felt overwhelmed as she followed Winnie and Gilbert up through the crowd towards the entrance to the Royal Ontario Museum. She watched as Gilbert seemed to withdraw, go into himself, letting Winnie guide his hand to her back as she charmed the crowd, stopping to speak to reporters from the gossip magazines that Anne sometimes skimmed through in Mr Boulter’s shop, scoffing at the stories printed inside before unceremoniously dumping it back on the shelf. She wondered what they would write about tonight; if they would mention what Winnie wore or the light joke she had made, her laughter like tinkling glass. She watched as she waved at people she recognised, rushing to them and sharing a dramatic air-kiss, before reaching behind her and drawing Gilbert closer.

“You’ve met Gilbert before, haven’t you?”

And they would say yes, they had and ask how he’d been, or would admit they hadn’t, holding out a hand that he took with a forced smile, shaking it too firmly. Anne felt herself become lost in the crowd, jostled in amongst other party goers and women with grinning faces turning to her enthusiastically with a voice recorder before they realised she was no one of significance, their faces dropping, a roll to their eyes, as they turned away.

She pushed on through the crowd, narrowing herself so as to not draw any attention to herself, nearing the doorway.

“Name?” a man with a stern face and a Bluetooth device attached to his ear asked.

“Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.” Anne watched anxiously as his finger scanned the list on his clipboard, Anne glancing over her shoulder and through the glass doors to see Winifred already inside. “I’m here with Gilbert Blythe.” The man frowned, as though he didn’t recognise the name. Anne realised he probably didn’t. “And Winifred Rose.”

His face brightened. “Ah.”

He scrolled through the list again. “Winifred Rose plus two. Go on ahead.”

Anne nodded and, swallowing back her uncertainty, stepped through the door.

The atrium was wide inside, a lobby overlooked by balconies leading off to galleries, and the glass ceiling seemed to stretch on forever. There were people bustling about and loud music pumping over speakers, the din of excited voices calling out to each other, gasping over one anothers’ outfits, the setting, how long it had been since they’d seen each other last.

Anne felt uneasy as she pushed through the crowd, searching wildly for the shock of dark hair and sloped shoulders that had become so familiar to her, spotting him eventually, hand in Winifred’s as he was dragged before a screen speckled with sponsors’ names, a black carpet laid before it. There was a barrier surrounding them, the next guest of honour queued at the side, waiting for their turn before the cameras and Anne drew closer, watching as he stood to Winifred’s left, looped one hand at her waist and fixed a smile to his face. The one she had seen in the photos when she had searched Winifred’s name. The one that never reached his eyes.

Winnie threw her hair back, stepped one foot out in front, tilted her head in a way that looked like she had been caught in a laugh. Anne realised so much of her job was acting, playing a part. She was well versed in what to say, which jokes to make, which angle to hold her body at so it looked it’s most willowy. Gilbert seemed dull in comparison; his stance awkward, his back too straight. Anxiety had been etched onto his face in the form of lines set around his mouth; his eyes were restless, searching. Until they seemed to find what they were looking for when they landed on her. His smile widened, a brightness about him like a light switch had just come on inside, a warm glow emanating from him through his eyes. She found herself smiling back, raising her hand in a half wave before someone jostled into her, pushed against her in the crowd. She watched as Gilbert’s face fell, his brow furrow, and Anne turned slowly to see who had just trampled upon their moment.

“He’s always been a lucky bastard,” came a crooning voice. 

Anne raised her eyes to find herself staring into the face of Roy Gardner.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Anne,” he said. “But, god, you haven’t changed a bit.”

**********

Gilbert watched as Anne was drawn away into the crowd, her hand in Roy’s grasp. There was a charming smile to his wolf-like features: narrow, grey eyes and high cheekbones, hair that was cut to his jawline and tucked behind his ears. She had seemed shocked initially, to see him beside her, but he leant down into her, murmured something close to her ear, and just for a moment her eyes found Gilbert’s again.

“Gilbert,” Winnie hissed beside him and he snapped his head away, finding her watching him with a flash of anger in her eyes. 

He turned back to the cameras, feeling like he was in a fishbowl, eyes staring, voices calling, and when his eyes darted back to the girl behind the rope, she was disappearing into the crowd.

He moved on with Winnie soon after, stopping to greet friends she met, a tense smile on his face, before eventually she led them through the atrium They passed the great dinosaur that stood in the centre of the chamber, the makeshift dance floor on the tiles, the pop up bar with platters of food and the DJ who stood behind a stack, to tables at the back cordoned off with a single line of thick black rope.

Gilbert took in the faces who sat at low round tables behind it: girls crowded together, taking photos on each other’s phones, “Wait, I don’t like that one. Let me stand and take it again.”

He skimmed over the other heads around the table, the same broad-shouldered boys that were always in their company, their cheeks ruddy as alcohol began to hit, before his eyes landed on two new additions. Roy Gardner huddled into a booth with Anne pressed beside him. Her eyes seemed to find Gilbert’s straight away.

“Win!” Roy called as they approached. 

Gilbert felt his brow furrow, glancing between Roy and Winnie and wondering when they had become so close that she was now “Win” to him. 

She smiled languidly, dropping an air kiss to both cheeks as he gestured for them to sit with him and Anne. The others at the table shifted to make room.

“Well, what a surprise when I found this one in the crowd,” Roy laughed, his hand coming to rest on Anne’s knee. 

Gilbert’s gaze dropped to where it was, his eyes finding her face to see she was blushing. 

“But a good one. God, I had the  _ biggest  _ crush on you at school.”

He laughed as he said it, staring into Anne’s face and she smiled tightly, shifted in her seat, her eyes dropping to the table. Gilbert was struck with the memory of the night before, of him declaring a similar crush, although he didn’t think she believed him. He was glad; it cast him in the spotlight, made him culpable of being the one who wrote the letter. He knew, after the time that had passed, she’d be furious if she found out.

“You’re every bit as gorgeous as you were back then,” he continued as Anne shouldered into him, a bashful smile playing on her lips.

“Stop,” she laughed, a blush to her cheeks. 

Gilbert felt his stomach turn.

“How about a drink?” Roy announced to the table. “A celebration.”

The others chimed their agreement and Gilbert nodded too. Roy ordered a carafe of champagne, Gilbert beckoning the waiter to him and ordering something stronger to accompany it. Winnie turned to him, a forced smile to her face as she leant into him.

“Go easy tonight, okay?” she hissed, her hand sliding onto his thigh. 

He glanced up to see Anne’s eyes resting where Winnie’s hand lay, but she ripped her gaze from them when she spotted him watching her, the colour on her rouged cheeks deepening. His eyes darted to Winnie and he nodded, thanking the waiter when he returned with a bucket filled with ice-cubes and three bottles of champagne, sliding a whiskey across the table to Gilbert, which he lifted to his lips, wincing as the alcohol burned the back of his throat, swallowing it in a single gulp.

The night drew on, Roy ordering another round in, and then another, the company becoming more relaxed, despite Gilbert feeling he was still on edge. He leaned too close to Anne and Roy as they spoke, catching stolen snippets of their conversation before being interrupted by another of Winnie’s friends asking after him.

“So, Winnie told us you’ve been accepted onto a graduate programme. Congratulations.”

“How has it been at home? I’m sure it’s so dull in the country. Where are you from again?”

He answered as politely as he could, all the while fighting the urge to watch Anne and Roy, the latter sliding closer to Anne in the seat, pressing against her, Anne shifting against him as though she was unsure whether to allow herself to lean into him or not. Her eyes darted to Gilbert as Winnie laid her hand against his chest. Anne sucked in a breath; she let herself sink into Roy. Gilbert felt his jaw set.

“Another round?” Roy announced, ordering the third bucket of champagne to the table.

“I’ll get this one,” Gilbert suggested.

Roy shook his head, gesturing to Gilbert to sit down again. “I’ll get this one, bud.” 

Gilbert’s blood began to boil.

The champagne arrived with another whiskey which Gilbert knocked back swiftly, grimacing as he heard Anne laugh next to Roy.

“You know, apparently you can tell a lot about a man by how he opens a bottle of champagne,” Anne remarked.

Roy cocked an eyebrow suggestively. 

Anne giggled, her cheeks glowing with alcohol. 

Gilbert felt dizzy.

“Oh, really?” Roy questioned. “And how is that?”

“Well,” Anne blushed. “Do they go off with a bang or is it more like a fizzle?”

Gilbert paled as Roy’s raucous laughter filled the space they occupied. 

Roy leant towards Anne. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

He twisted at the cork deftly, jerking it from the top of the bottle, the fizzing drink trickling out slowly onto the table. Gilbert lifted his glass to his lips, taking a sip to disguise the smirk on his face.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Anne said with a teasing laugh.

“But is it true?” Roy questioned, dropping his face down level with her ear. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

She straightened. Gilbert’s mouth fell open at the suggestion, and like polar ends of a magnet coming together, he and Anne came to find each other, eyes connecting over the table. Anne’s hand tightened around the stem of her glass. She swirled the liquid and swallowed the drink, hiccoughing as the bubbles hit the back of her throat. Gilbert felt his heart beat rapidly, his mouth turning cottony and dry.

“Do you dance, Anne?” Roy asked and she blushed, a slight nod to her head. “Well then, shall we?”

Gilbert watched with wide eyes as she stood, squeezed past the others at the table, head ducked, not quite meeting his eye, and then Roy had her hand in his again, leading her onto the dancefloor. He spun her under his arm, the movement so unexpected it drew a shriek from Anne, her face bright and her smile wide, and then he drew her close to him and Gilbert felt his hand tighten around his glass. His jaw tightened as she slipped her hands around his neck, Roy moving against her, a goofy smile to his face as they danced to the upbeat music.

“Gilbert!” Winnie’s voice was low in his ear, a sharp dig in his ribs dragging him from his thoughts, his head snapping towards her once more. “Paul is speaking to you. What has gotten into you tonight?”

He turned back to her, mumbling an apology as Paul posed his question again. “I said I’m sure you’re glad to be back in the city.”

Gilbert nodded, his answer hollow. He took another drink gratefully from the waitress who appeared before them, the alcohol numbing him as his eyes scanned over the crowd, falling on Anne and Roy on the dancefloor, her skin aglow under the twinkling lights as Roy swung her around him and pressed her against him, his mouth close to her ear.

Gilbert felt a visceral twist deep inside him, a sharp stabbing pain as though the knife that had been lodged in him earlier had been gripped, the shaft twisted viciously, driving it deeper into him; some sort of acidic taste in his mouth that slithered through his veins. It was something that felt bitter and hateful; something that felt like jealousy. He swallowed it back with another swill, turning back to the crowd at the table.

“I am, yeah,” he answered, his voice sounding flat to his own ears.

“Not that we don’t keep Winnie busy,” Paul chuckled. “She barely noticed you were missing.”

Gilbert nodded, forcing his face into a smile, but he felt the sting of truth to the words. She probably didn’t miss him; he hadn’t thought of her really. He had thought of his family and his friends and… His gaze stretched out over the crowd, landing on the girl who danced like a flame.

He looked away. Closed his eyes. Took a drink.

**********

Anne danced until after two, the music bright and lively, and she finally let Roy lead her tired feet from the dancefloor towards the stairway, all the while fighting the urge to seek out Gilbert, to turn back towards the table he spent the evening at, Winnie’s hand on his knee.

It had felt like a punch, seeing them in company together. How easy it was for Winnie to touch him; a palm to his chest, fingers on his arm, against his thigh, and Anne felt a queasiness deep inside her, a horrid feeling that compelled her to keep looking as much as she wanted to turn away. It was strange, seeing him like this: his voice was measured as he spoke, as though he was choosing his words carefully, feeling out what to say before he committed. He seemed different. He had the same face as the boy she lay beside the night before, his leg pressed against hers, his voice low, but this Gilbert?  _ This _ Gilbert lacked his spirit. He lacked his charm and his smile and the jokes he told that made Anne laugh. He lacked himself or, at least, the Gilbert she had come to know. She wondered which one was truer, but when his eyes met hers across the table, she felt she could see something flicker in them that answered her question. Winnie leant into him. Anne looked away.

Anne was uncertain to why she was letting Gilbert Blythe under her skin, why she watched his every move from the corner of her eye. But Roy had been pleasant company in her anguish, his lively banter and generosity in keeping her glass topped up taking the edge off the evening for Anne, and she felt herself relax. Anne came to Toronto to look for the author of her love letter, and although she knew already that wasn’t Roy, his mouth too open, telling her exactly what he thought when he thought it, she supposed there was no reason not to give him a chance anyway. She was having fun. Or as much as she could, given the company.

She joined him in his jokes and let him hold her when they danced. She allowed him to push her hair over her shoulder and breathe hot breath against her ear when he spoke to her. And when her feet ached, she let him take her away from the crowd and up the stairs.

“Have you ever been here before?” he asked, his voice like a purr and Anne shook her head.

“I’ve never been too far from Avonlea,” she admitted.

“Well, it’s amazing. I love when they host events here. They never close off the galleries. They’re always fun to explore.”

But Anne felt his hand slip lower on her back, and she had the jarring feeling that it wasn’t historical artefacts that Roy wished to explore. He led her to the first floor, and then the second, and they were suddenly alone.

They wandered around the glass display cases, Anne leaning towards the plaques describing each item, her eyes squinting as she read the facts in the dim light. She hummed, moved along to the next, Roy hovering close by her side.

“I meant what I said, you know,” he said.

“Hmm?”

“About liking you in school. Jesus, Anne, you were the haughtiest thing. Always turning up your nose at everyone.” He laughed. “I thought you didn’t bat for our team for a while and then I realised you had a thing for Blythe.”

Anne rounded on him. “For Gilbert?” She felt panic in her chest, her voice sounding strangled. 

He gave her a curious look, laughed lowly. “The two of you did nothing but argue. You were like a married couple.”

“I hated Gilbert.” The words sounded strange on her lips now; they felt like they had come so far from then.

“Looks like you’ve sorted everything now.”

Anne turned away abruptly, eyeing the case before her and catching her own startled expression in the glass. Her skin was white as a sheet, the face of a ghost staring back at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said beside her. “What did I say?”

“Nothing,” Anne answered hastily. “I think I’m just tired.”

“You’re sure you aren’t angry?” he asked, and Anne glanced back at him to see his hands buried into his pockets. 

She bit down on her lip, shaking her head. 

He smiled; slithered closer. “Because I can think of a way to make it up to you if you are.”

Anne swallowed, her eyes darting between his, heart racing uncomfortably as his eyes slid down her face to rest against her lips. She felt herself press them together. “Oh yes?” she asked. “And what’s that?”

He closed the gap between them, his kiss wet and insistent, taking Anne by surprise. She felt his hand slide along her jaw, but her arms remained around her middle, body still angled against his. 

He pulled away, voice hot at her ear. “Come home with me.”

Anne shut her eyes, forcing the image of chocolate curls and hazel eyes from her head. The deliciously dangerous feeling of having Gilbert’s body against her, of wishing to close the gap between them; to surge forward and claim his lips in a kiss. 

She nodded. “Okay.”

Roy laughed triumphantly, his face beaming when he drew back from her. “Let’s get your bag.”

They tripped back down the stairs, Anne’s step heavy as they pushed back through the dancefloor towards the table they had vacated. Roy stopped to chat with someone on the way.

“You grab your things and I’ll meet you here,” he said. 

Anne nodded once more, trudging against the tiles and back towards Gilbert. His face seemed to brighten as he saw her and he went to stand, thighs knocking against the table, when he seemed to think better of it, Winnie shooting him a questioning look. He dropped back into his seat.

“Winnie, would you mind passing me my bag, please?” Anne asked and Winnie shot her a knowing look, a sly smile on her pretty face. She reached for the bag, passing it across the table.

“Are you leaving?” she asked innocently. 

Anne flushed as she answered, ignoring how Gilbert’s face seemed to drop; his complexion blanching a phantom-like white. “I’ve had a lovely time,” she said. “Thanks for letting me join you.”

“Not a problem.” Winnie smiled serenely. “I’m glad you had fun.”

Anne turned from the table, walking back across the floor when she heard her name being called.

“Anne!”

She didn’t stop, knowing who it was and needing to put as much distance between him and herself as she could.

“Anne!”

He caught her at her elbow and she spun on her heel. 

There was something wild and panicked in Gilbert’s eye. “So you’re going home with him, then?” he asked, a hint of desperation in his voice. 

She felt her chin lift, her head nod. “Is that – okay?”

Gilbert coughed lightly, clearing his throat, his hands thrusting into his pockets as nonchalantly as he could muster. “Of course,” he mumbled. But there was something dull in how he said it. In how he couldn’t meet her eye. “Why would it not be?”

Anne shook her head, her eyes flickering over his features: the furrow between his brow, his eyes soft, vulnerable, pleading. “I don’t know.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. 

Gilbert swallowed back, fighting the desire to lean into her, to draw closer. Instead, he reached into his pocket, drawing a keyring from it, three keys hanging onto the loop. He threaded one off, a heavy silver key, reaching it towards Anne. “Here.”

Anne stared at the key, raising her gaze to Gilbert and finding his eyes on her. 

His smile was tight and uncertain. “In case you decide not to stay the night.”

“Sure.” Her fingers closed around the key, Anne taking it from his grip and tucking it into her bag. 

Her eyes found his again, a wounded expression on his face.

“Enjoy the rest of your night,” she heard herself say. 

Gilbert raised his arm, his hand finding the back of his neck. “Uhm.” His eyes darted from her to Roy and back, a flicker of something that she couldn’t quite identify crossing his features. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

Anne felt like they were drawing this moment out, with her lingering longer than she needed to but not saying all she had needed to say. 

He was going to leave tonight with Winnie. She would leave with Roy.

“Anne!”

She glanced over her shoulder towards the direction of the voice, a hint of annoyance in Roy’s tone. She lifted a finger to him, mouthing “Just one minute”. 

Roy rolled his eyes, an easy smile on his handsome face, his jacket slung over his shoulder. He nodded.

Anne turned back to Gilbert, flushing when she realised he was watching their interaction, his gaze shifting from Roy back to Anne. 

He cleared his throat. “So, you’re leaving then.” He nodded towards the edge of the dancefloor, where Roy waited, checking his watch. 

Anne followed his gaze. She shrugged, feeling tension in her shoulders. “I guess I am.”

“Right.” Gilbert nodded curtly, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Well, uhm… Have fun, I guess.”

“Thanks.” Anne felt herself heat up, a tell-tale blush colouring her skin. She didn’t want to talk to him about this. He knew she wasn’t going back to Roy’s to play Scrabble. Gilbert knew what was going to happen. The thought made her stomach churn.

“And, uhm…” his hand brushed at his forehead distractedly, his eyes dropping to the toes of his shoes. “Be safe.”

“Thanks.” She paused, wanting him to meet her eye once more. Needing to see him fully before he left. “Gil.”

He glanced up at the nickname, at the gentleness to her voice, and Anne felt her breath hitch. There was a wounded look to his eyes; something pained that compelled Anne to reach out, run her thumb along his cheekbone, but she didn’t. She kept it firmly at her side.

“Anne!” came an impatient voice.

She threw a glance at Roy once more, before twisting her head back to Gilbert. “I have to go.”

“Yeah.”

Gilbert watched as she turned from him, releasing him from her gaze and making her way across the thinning crowd on the dancefloor towards Roy. Her stride was slow, uncertain. 

He watched as she shot Roy a smile, her shy thanks as he slipped his jacket around her. He watched as Roy took her hand in his and led her away towards the glass panelled doors, Anne turning back just once, her eyes finding him straight away. He watched as Roy bent low, whispering something into her ear that made her turn from him again, her attention back on the man she had decided to leave with. He watched as she dissolved, swallowed by the crowd, her flame-red hair and silky, champagne coloured dress evaporating in a sea of blondes and brunettes, clacking heels and sharp shouldered blazers. He watched until the door swung shut. 

And when he knew she was gone, he turned, walked back to the table where he had spent the evening seated, surrounded by designer dresses and clouds of Chanel No. 5 and cigarette smoke.

He returned to Winnie.

**********

Gilbert blinked into the greyness of the room he shared with Winnie, city light flowing through the gauzy curtains that concealed the floor to ceiling windows. He was tired, painfully so, his eyes stinging and heavy, but he couldn’t sleep. His mind was too restless, his treacherous mind conjuring images of skin against freckled skin, red hair tangled against a pillow, a shock of black hair moving against her neck. He felt sick.

He lurched forward, sitting up and swinging his feet from the bed, the soles brushing against the pale carpet below him. He heard Winnie move beside him, the rustle of sheets as she readjusted herself, moving her legs beneath the quilt and burrowing deeper into the blankets. He glanced over his shoulder to where she lay, caught in the half-light of the room; her back turned against him like it always was when she slept.

She had been angry at him when they came home, but he dared say he could blame her. He arrived back at the table after Anne left and ordered another drink, and she smiled at him sweetly and pressed her fingers into his flesh as she’d hissed, “ _ Slow down.” _

So he had. He sat quietly and answered when necessary. He laughed when he should have and nodded when he needed to appear interested. And he fought with himself to not look towards the door again, wrestled with the foolish hope in his heart that Anne would reappear and tell him that she didn’t much like Roy after all. He tried to ignore flashes of her he could see, chasing shadows of her in the room: a gold dress, freckled skin, a laugh that sounded like hers if he listened long enough.

Winnie had complained when their car dropped them back at their apartment block, the pair standing side by side in silence inside the lift, Gilbert punching the button taking them to their floor. The doors slid shut.

“You behaved very strangely tonight,” she’d whispered and her voice was almost icy cold. 

He had listened in silence, staring straight ahead of him. 

“You look  _ rude  _ when you don’t listen to people, Gilbert.”

“I’m sorry,” he had answered. “I was distracted.”

“By what?”

The doors had opened and he’d left before he had to answer. They had entered the apartment, the amber glow of the city lights at night-time illuminating his way as he walked through the apartment, not stopping when Winnie went to the kitchen, pulled a bottle from the back and asked, “Fancy a nightcap?”

He had let his feet carry him forward, a slight shake to his head as he passed her and went to their room. He undressed slowly, slipping off his jacket and slinging it onto a chair, his fingers on the buttons of his shirt when Winnie appeared in the doorway, her arms crossing herself as she leant against the jamb.

“I’m sorry for being angry,” she had said.

Gilbert had shaken his head. “It’s fine.”

Winnie had stood up straight, a smile quirking at her lips as she crossed the floor, wrapping long limbs around him, her breath hot on his neck. She’d trailed a finger along his chest, finding the buttons he hadn’t yet undone and opening them one by one. “I could think of a way to make it up to you,” she had whispered, pressing a kiss below his ear. 

He had felt himself inhale; fought the urge to pull away. 

“We have the place all to ourselves,” she had purred. “Your friend’s having her fun.” 

Gilbert had felt a wave of sickness crash into his stomach as Winnie trailed kisses down his neck, moving back to his ear and nipping lightly at the lobe. 

“We could have ours.”

Gilbert felt defeated as her hand had trailed into his hair. She was right: Anne had left. She’d gone home with Roy and she probably wasn’t thinking of him. He felt a sharp stabbing pain deep in his chest. And that was why, when her lips found his, he had let her kiss him. He had let her part his mouth with her tongue. He had let her slip his shirt from his shoulders and pepper a trail of kisses along his collarbone. He had let her walk him backwards, pressing him onto the bed as she loomed above him, her lips finding his neck once more. He had let her loosen his belt buckle, slip his trousers from him and discard them on the floor.

But despite his body going through the motions, sweeping hair back from her shoulder and pressing a kiss to her skin, his hands finding her thighs when she straddled his waist, his mind had been elsewhere, wandering. It was far away, in another room with another girl. It wasn’t until he felt her hand slide lower, brush across his hip to the centre of him, did he realise what was happening, catching her wrist in his hand and mumbling, “Winnie, it’s been a long day,” into her ear.

She had drawn back, something akin to shock on her face, and then she rolled from him and landed on her back. “I’ve missed you,” she’d said but there was no substance to it. Just words whispered into a dark room. 

Gilbert had felt numb as he felt her hand slide to him once more, trace his chest, his shoulder, his arm. He went to open his mouth to answer, but no words came out. He’d stayed silent as she turned from him, settling onto her other side. He listened to the whoosh of traffic below, the ticking of the alarm clock on his side of the bed. Winnie’s breathing deepened as she fell asleep. 

He willed sleep to take him too but it never came.

He sat straight, looking across at the sleeping figure once more, before slipping off the bed, finding an old t-shirt and pulling it over his head, and moving through the silence to the kitchen. He switched on the television, the volume low enough that he could hear any movement in the hallway outside, his head snapping towards the door with every ding of the elevator or sound from the street. He switched the television off. He wasn’t watching it anyway. He walked to the office and searched the shelves for something to read but found nothing that interested him.

He went to the kitchen, filling the kettle and placing it on to boil. He leant against the counter, chewing distractedly at a nail as he waited for it to whistle, then he turned, searched the cupboards for his mug. It was a pale blue NASA mug that Dellie had picked out for him once. It was aged now, faded after a few years of passing through scalding washes in the dishwasher, a chip at the rim, but he wouldn’t let Winnie bin it when she wanted to, her declaring that it ruined the aesthetic of their apartment after she filled their cabinet with porcelain Jonathon Adler mugs that her mother had gifted them. She turned to him.

“It doesn’t match,” she’d complained.

“It’s just a mug.”

“Yes, it is. So bin it.”

He hadn’t, instead squirrelling it away in the back of a cupboard she rarely looked in. It had felt like a secret at the time, the only part of the apartment that marked the place as his. Not even the clothes in his wardrobe had been chosen by him.

He found the mug where he had left it, spooning in two teaspoons of coffee and sloshing hot water over the top, then he went to the balcony, settled on the seat Winnie had chosen and watched as the sun reared its head over the city, cradling his mug in his hands.

He wasn’t sure how long he had sat there, but soon he was disturbed by the sound of movement inside the house, a rattle at the door and feet tiptoeing across the tiles. He felt himself go still, wondering if he should stand and go to greet her or let her slip past him for fear she would be embarrassed by him seeing her arrive back so late. His blood thundered through him, loud in his ears. 

But the decision was made for him, 

Anne appeared in the doorway to the balcony, a look of surprise on her face as she spotted him. 

He shot to his feet, coffee sloshing over the rim of his cup and landing on the ground. He felt himself redden.

“Hi,” she greeted, her hands lifting automatically to her hair, flattening her tousled tresses.

He felt his stomach sink as he watched her, the flush to her cheeks and smear to her make-up. Her hair was messy, tangled; her soft, golden dress was creased in the type of way Gilbert imagined it would if it was slipped over her head, her body released from its confines, before being tossed to the floor in a careless, silken heap. He felt like he knew too much. The coffee solidified inside him, settling in his stomach like a weight as his treasonous mind conjured images of a shock of jet black hair contrasting against flame red. A wolfish grin pressing kisses to freckled skin. 

“Hi,” he answered.

“What are you doing up?” she asked him, and her voice croaked in the sort of way voices did after long nights of shouting over thumping music and kissing strangers in darkened rooms. 

He felt his tongue wet his dried lips. “I couldn’t sleep.”

She nodded. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Gilbert shook his head, settling back onto the weatherproof cushion of the black woven loveseat. 

Anne sat beside him, curling her knees to her chest, her bare feet settled at the edge. She stared out over the city.

“Did you have a good night?” he asked, watching for a sign, a flicker of a smile at a memory she had secreted away, to tell him that he should push her from his mind for good; that she had no place there, no matter how often he felt her crawling back. 

She bit her lip, her eyes narrowing pensively. She nodded. “He’s not  _ him _ ,” she told him, turning to him briefly, her face flickering with a smile. “But we had fun.”

Gilbert felt his blood curdle. An invisible hand reached low into his stomach and punched him there, so harshly that he could have moaned in pain. Instead, he nodded curtly, fixed his eyes ahead of him and said, “Good.”

The silence between them was heavy, pregnant with things both wanted to know but couldn’t say for fear they heard the answer they dreaded. They watched the sun rise further, it’s orange head appearing over the buildings and casting the city in an amber wash. Gilbert’s eyes darted to Anne and he saw her head tilted backwards, eyes closed as the warmth radiated over her face. She looked serene, peaceful. He wondered what that felt like when he imagined he would explode with all the conflicting feelings battling each other inside of him. Guilt, fear, hope, frustration, maddening confusion, and, at the centre of it all, something that made his heart feel it was aflame.

Anne opened her eyes, catching his gaze. “What’s on your mind?” she asked, and he huffed a laugh, transported back to the room they lay in the night before, when he asked her the exact same question.

“Nothing,” he replied, pausing as she nodded. “And everything.”

She stilled, her eyes shooting to his as she seemed to recognise the similarities. There was a sense of déjà vu;they had been here before. “Sounds heavy,” she whispered.

“It is.”

Her eyes flickered across his, her lips parting slightly as her breath seemed too shallow in her chest. A shiver trembled along her spine. “Anything I can help with?” she asked, her voice quiet, barely a whisper.

“I don’t know,” he replied and he felt himself drawing closer to her, leaning in. His eyes slipped down her face to her lips, Anne’s eyes followed his. 

And then she jerked upright, turning towards the vista, her voice strained when she spoke, a wild look to her eyes; her skin bright with a flush. “I’m going to go to bed.” She didn’t look at him as she stood, walking back to the doorway. 

But Gilbert was desperate to hold onto the moment for just one minute longer. His mind raced, searching for a reason to get her to stay. “I was offered a spot on a graduate programme,” he blurted suddenly and Anne stopped, her head bowed as she rested her palm against the doorjamb. “Winifred’s dad spoke to a friend and they’ve given me a place.”

She raised her head to him. “Here?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She looked like she had been winded, her head jerked back and mouth rounded with the impact. 

He could see the muscle at her jaw flicker. 

She glanced back towards him. “I see.” Her gaze fell to the floor, her voice dull when she spoke again. “And are you taking it?”

He felt his heart drop to his feet as he nodded. “Winnie has already accepted.”

“Good,” she said, her voice strangled with the brightness in it. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” she urged him. “Winifred is lovely and her parents are supportive. I don’t understand. What’s holding you back?”

He felt his eyes linger on her, his mouth rounding with the words he wanted to say: “ _ Just one thing.” _ He swallowed them, shaking the thought from his head; it would ruin this. What they had. She was going to continue her search whether Gilbert was with Winifred or not. She thought she wanted the person who wrote the letter, and while that person was him, too much time had passed now for him to claim it. He would destroy their fleeting friendship, this odd limbo they were locked in, where Anne stood firmly on the cliff edge, Gilbert about to topple over into something more.

“I don’t know if it’s what I want,” he said instead, and her face seemed to soften. She came to sit next to him once more. 

“And what do you want?” she urged him. “What does the future look like for you, Gil? That’s all you really have to decide. To live a life with no regrets.”

He watched as her face seemed to alter before him, her eyes widening as though her words had come as a surprise to her too.

And then she left him, slipping back into the gloom inside. 

Gilbert stared after her, her words echoing around his head.

_ What would he regret? _ he wondered, his mind whirling as it struggled to answer his question. He lifted his hands to his hair, dragging his fingers across his scalp, his elbow knocking into the mug he had balanced against the arm of the chair, sending it veering over the edge. The mug crashed to the ground, splitting into two pieces, cooling coffee pooling at his feet.

Gilbert watched the coffee drip through the cracks on the floor. It was curious, he thought. He had fought so hard to keep that mug but now that it was broken, he wondered why he had, because now he felt nothing for it at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well done and kudos to you for making it to the end of this angst-riddled nightmare! Big thanks to Hozier, The Script and Jeff Buckley for keeping me company and making this angsty! 
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. I actually very much so enjoyed writing this one. I feel it does start quite abruptly but it is a direct continuation on from the previous chapter. I hope that wasn't a little jarring to anyone. 
> 
> And if Roy's description feels a little like an extroverted Timothée Chalamet to you, that's fully intentional. I picture him as Roy almost all the time! 
> 
> If you wish to, please leave a little comment or kudos. I adore reading your thoughts, theories and suggestions. They never fail to make me smile. 
> 
> Also, random little thing, but we have this superstition here that if a significant other buys you a watch it means your time is up (as a couple, so a break up is inevitable). I added this in in the smallest detail (Winnie bought Gilbert a watch) but I just wondered if this is a superstition anywhere else? Haha! 
> 
> Anyway, if you'd like to, come chat to me on my socials: [Twitter](https://twitter.com/chaos_in_calm), [Tumblr](https://beckybubbles.tumblr.com/) or drop me a question on writing, The Love Letter or life on [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.me/chaos_in_calm)! Also, you can check out [The Avonlea Tales](https://twitter.com/theavonleatales) podcast for more AWAE content. I'm a host on there!
> 
> Wishing you all the happiest of holidays! 
> 
> Talk soon,  
> Becky x


	8. Chapter Seven: ‘My thoughts rush to you... now and then joyfully, then again sadly, waiting to know whether Fate will hear our prayer.’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Gilbert explores his feelings, a shock encounter thrusts Anne back into her past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Arrives back to AO3 with a theoretical bunch of flowers and a handmade 'I'm Sorry' card*  
> (Plus my second upload of this chapter because the first one disappeared into oblivion!)
> 
> Please take these and apologies for the vanishing act. Life has been hectic and my head has been in a strange little place, but here is a kinda long chapter of The Love Letter for you all. I hope you enjoy it - I'm super duper nervous about this one but can't quite say why. I guess it's been so long, I'm worried I haven't done it justice.  
> (Please be aware, there is discussion of a minor character death in this chapter.)
> 
> A huge thank you to [Kara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashingwhitesgt/pseuds/dashingwhitesgt) for being beta to this story and being so supportive and thorough. I don't know if I say it often enough, but I appreciate you endlessly. <3
> 
> I made a wee [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/18PQ0CHVL5k79AsE9zNLAe?si=fU1lXfGJQZy-E0TPfOvWDA) of songs I listened to for inspiration while writing this, if anyone would enjoy a little more TLL ch7 when you've finished reading (or during, I won't judge when you listen to it.)
> 
> This title is once again from Beethoven to his Immortal Beloved. 
> 
> This chapter is for all the souls who feel lost or forgotten.  
> You are loved. Infinity times infinity.  
> xxx

Gilbert Blythe hated traffic. There was nothing he found more frustrating than being stationary when he had somewhere to be as the glare of traffic lights strained his eyes. 

But today, by the time this particular traffic jam had crept into its second hour, Gilbert felt that he didn’t mind the glaring brake lights of the cars lined before them. He didn’t mind the peering faces from the children in the back seat of the car beside them, and he didn’t mind the suppressive heat of the car as midday approached. 

He didn’t mind it because he was with Anne.

There was a certain light that came with late morning, right before the day ripened into the afternoon, when the sky was a hazy shade of powder blue, still streaked with golden threads of daybreak that lingered like a perfume, and Anne seemed to glow beneath it. It had been a recent discovery to Gilbert, an unconscious habit he had developed, thinking it extraordinary how she could appear different under each of Mother Nature’s moods. She was an ever-altering being, and Gilbert made it his mission to commit to memory each shade of Anne Shirley-Cuthbert as the sun rose and the sky burned deeper into evening, soon becoming black and silvered with stars. Sometimes she appeared moonlike, the velvet of midnight contrasting with her pearlescent skin, freckles dotting her like constellations. And sometimes, late in the evening, she was a golden being, a solar deity fallen to earth.

But it was in this light, the soft glow of day that made everything richer, the trees appearing fresher, centres of the wild daisies that lined the kerbs as yellowed as the yolk of an egg, that she flourished best. Or, he reasoned, until the light began to shift again and he found himself studying her once more, creamy skin streaked with golden beams and strips of shadow. She was beside him in the passenger seat of his dad’s old car. Anne tugged restlessly at the ends of her braids as she strained her neck to peer above the cars lined before them, and while she _should_ have appeared angry and reddened, her forehead marked with a crease of annoyance, she didn’t. Rather, she almost appeared to have an aura surrounding her, a mellowed glow to her pale skin, like the bright yellow bloom of a buttercup reflected upon her, despite the frustrated groan she emitted.

“We’ll never make it home in time for work now,” Anne worried, her voice slicing through the silence and snapping Gilbert from his thoughts.

He dragged his eyes away from her thighs, where he had been tracing the outline of the shadow he had cast along her skin. He fixed his gaze forward, studying the number plate of the car before them.

“And whose fault is that?” he asked, attempting to soften the edge of hurt he could hear in his voice as Anne’s eyes fell upon him.

“Not mine.”

“I beg to differ.”

Anne scoffed, rolling her eyes, and turning her face from him. She folded her arms across herself protectively as he pressed forward.

“Who was it that wanted to see Toronto again?”

Anne flushed. That had been her, stepping into Gilbert’s kitchen the previous morning with an unread message from Roy on her phone. She knew what it was going to say. A breakfast invitation, possibly followed by a winking face, but Anne had left it unopened. Instead, she’d slipped from her bedroom, padding along the hall to find Gilbert sitting on one of the low coffee coloured sofas in the living area, nursing a pristine cream mug between his hands. He’d raised his head to her as he’d heard her approach, his eyes rimmed with dark rings and hair unruly as though he hadn’t slept at all from when she had left him on the balcony earlier that morning. He’d sprung to his feet as she entered, coffee spilling over the rim of his mug and splashing onto the tiles.

“Good morning,” he’d said, his face gaunt, tired. 

Anne couldn’t help but think that perhaps he’d been troubled by the conversation they had shared a few hours before, just as she had. Her night had been spent tossing and turning against the goose feather pillows that she lay upon, sleep coming to her in waves before her eyes snapped open once more and her stomach felt sick.

She wasn’t quite sure how to describe it. All her senses told her nothing had changed. She was still Anne and he was still Gilbert: old schoolmates who had loathed the very sight of each other, but something inexplicable had occurred that weekend. A seismic shift, the ground moving beneath Anne as she attempted to balance herself, to admit to herself, somewhat reluctantly, that perhaps she _cared_ for Gilbert Blythe. That perhaps she wanted what was _best_ for him. 

Anne would never have been selfish enough to think that what was best for him was her, and that she could offer him as many opportunities as his life with Winifred would afford him. But when she’d seen him tugging at his clothes or blinking like a startled rabbit beneath the flashing of lights of cameras, she’d found herself wondering if his life in Toronto was what he needed. 

She had sat beside him on his balcony, listened as he spoke words edged with uncertainty, and she’d told him to make choices that he would not regret. Anne had known, as she’d stood to leave, that a medical internship was something he couldn’t refuse. Gilbert was too dedicated to his chosen profession to let such a rare opportunity slip past him. The thought filled her with a queer ache, pressing down heavily in the cavity of her being. She’d wondered why she found it so easy to give advice she never listened to herself as she fought the urge to turn back, to let her eyes fall upon him, to tell him she was sorry she had left with Roy, although she wasn’t sure if that was something he’d even want to hear. She wondered why, with the close of the summer that neared every hour, she dreaded the thought of him leaving her more and more, her stomach curdling with a dense queasiness each time she entertained the notion. 

There weren’t many people she trusted enough to share herself with and, despite the tumultuous history they’d shared, he was someone she had come to think of as a true friend. But if there was one thing Anne had learnt in life, it was that people leave. And the pain of that was too much. She was still nursing the wounds of Matthew’s untimely departure, guarding her heart so as to not let people in just in case they would leave again. That way, when the end came, it didn’t break her. She wasn’t sure how many more cracks she could withstand before she shattered.

And so, when she’d found herself sitting next to Gilbert on his sofa, their distorted reflections on the blank television screen blurring together, she’d found herself reaching for her phone, pulling it free from the pocket of her daisy printed dungarees. She felt the weight of his eyes upon her, could hear the sharp intake of his breath as her screen lit up, Roy’s unread message appearing before them. She could feel him fall back against the cushions, hear the scratch of skin against stubble as he dragged a hand down his face and when he laughed it had been humourless. His head ducked, his fingers flexing unfamiliarly around the circumference of his mug, the contents suddenly very interesting. 

“You’re seeing Roy today.”

It was more of a statement than a question, as though he was reinforcing her leaving with Roy to himself. Like it had been a bad dream that had just become a reality. 

Anne nodded sadly. “I told Roy I’d see a little of Toronto with him,” she’d lied.

A twinge of hurt flickered over his face. He'd huffed a breath, sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down upon it, nodding lightly.

“Right.”

Anne felt as though she had swallowed her voice as he stood abruptly, rinsed his mug beneath the tap and replaced it in the cabinet above his head. He’d paused, turning his back against the countertop, and resting against it. Anne could see the muscle at his jaw flicker, restraining something within him when his eyes met hers.

“I don’t know why I thought you wouldn’t have liked him.”

He smiled sadly, lowering his gaze from her as he paced from the room, leaving Anne alone. Now, the only company she had was a text message that read exactly what she’d thought it would. She’d laughed hollowly, letting her head fall back against the sofa, ignoring the voice in her mind that told her exactly _why_ her heart felt as though it was gripped in a vice. 

Undeniably, she’d had fun, Roy an enthusiastic tour guide, walking her past locations he had shot at before, identifying points of interest in the city or places that he enjoyed. He’d paid for breakfast, taken her to a trendy café with jam jars hanging low from the ceiling, lightbulbs glowing softly inside.

“The best coffee in Toronto, I swear,” he’d said as he ordered for her, a flat white and feta cheese and chorizo omelette. “Why didn’t you say sooner,” he’d laughed when Anne informed him she was vegetarian.

“You didn’t give me a chance.”

He’d held his breath as Anne sipped at her coffee, the taste bitter, sour on her tongue as she swilled the scalding liquid in her mouth.

“It’s good, right?” he’d asked, his face as excitable as a child on Christmas morning.

“Yes, it’s…”

“The best, believe me.” He gulped at his own. “I’ve tried a coffee from almost every place in Toronto and here’s where I come back to every single time. It’s the beans. Ecuadorian, I think. The taste is incomparable, really.”

Anne had nodded as he spoke, wrestling with the thought that Gilbert would have known she hated coffee. In fact, he would have known exactly how she took her tea, a splash of milk and no sugar, a playful smirk to his face as he repeated, “ _I’m sweet enough.”_

“It’s so earthy, you can almost taste the soil,” Roy had asserted, his handsome face crumpling as she’d laughed.

“I don’t even want to know _how_ you know what soil tastes like.”

He stared blankly back at her, the joke going over his head.

He led her through Queen’s park on their way back to Gilbert’s apartment, a luscious green space hidden in the heart of the city, flanked by buildings that stretched as high as the clouds. And yet, beneath the boughs of the trees, Anne had felt she could be back in Avonlea, completely peaceful as she wandered beneath the boughs of great oaks. She had stopped to marvel over the dancing heads of colourful blooms planted in neat bed rows, the manicured lawns damp under her feet.

“Hurry up, Anne,” Roy had urged. 

Anne had been busy feeling the grooves of a great oak beneath her fingers, and found herself wishing again that it was Gilbert with whom she had explored such a beautiful city, knowing he would have waited happily, hands tucked into his pockets, that startlingly soft expression in his eyes, as he watched her wander beneath the rustling leaves or run her fingers along velvety rose petals that grew from thorny stems.

She had returned to Gilbert’s apartment just after noon, opening the door to see his bag already packed, pushed neatly against the wall awaiting her arrival. He and Winnie were seated in the living area, Winnie stretched out on the sofa tapping mindlessly through her phone. Gilbert was in an armchair, his fingers threading through the short curls at the nape of his neck as he read a book opened on his knee. When they spoke it was murmured, Gilbert glancing upwards to give Winnie a brief answer, and Anne’s mind filled with images of them, older than they were now, threads of silver streaking their hair as they shared their space the same way. Her keys clattered to the counter, shocking Anne from her clairvoyant thoughts and alerting the couple to her arrival. Gilbert’s smile was guarded as his eyes fell upon her, eyes wary and expression unreadable. Anne wondered if he was frustrated that she had interrupted a moment of privacy. 

They had left an hour later. Winifred had been dressed in skin-tight leather trousers and a trendily oversized shirt, sunglasses pushing her curls back from her face as she stood between Anne and Gilbert in the elevator.

“I have to run,” she’d said as they reached the doorway that led out into the Toronto sunshine. “I’m already late for lunch. Safe journey home.”

As Winnie had drawn him into a kiss, Anne had felt her fingernails pressing painful half-moons into her wrist, the discomfort not dulling the visceral twist in her chest. Anne dropped her gaze to the toes of her battered Converse, frilled socks peeping from above the laces, as Winnie’s hand slid along Gilbert’s jaw, his hand faltering before falling to her hip. 

“Lovely to meet you, Anne,” she’d crooned, before striding away, heels clicking against the tiles as the door opened and she disappeared into the sunlight, a beacon of sophistication compared to Anne.

Gilbert checked his watch. “I suppose we should get going.”

Anne had found comfort being back in the car, revelling in the worn seats and cramped footwell; the smell of old leather and the pine tree air freshener that hung from the indicator.

“Will we be back in time for me to be at work for nine?” she’d asked him. 

He’d grinned, his movements confident as he reassured her and turned the key. 

But he had been wrong. Gilbert led them off the motorway and into a deserted service station, eyes heavy with sleep, just as the clock on the dashboard displayed 2am.

“This is _such_ an inconvenience,” Anne had complained but she had fallen easily into sleep herself. 

Gilbert awoke two hours later, a soft smile melting his features as he watched her breath in, her cheeks tattooed with lines from where they pressed into the seat.

They fell back into conversation easily, passing the journey with laughter and road games. Anne chattered endlessly as Gilbert had listened, nodding thoughtfully as she’d declared The Great British Bake Off to be the most stressful show on television.

“They lure you in with chintzy gingham and contestants named Barb,” she’d professed as Gilbert chuckled quietly beside her. “But I _swear_ you could rupture a blood vessel watching it. Who would have thought a Victoria sponge could be heart attack inducing?”

“I did,” he’d retorted with a laugh. “You know, it’s important to maintain a balanced diet. Too many saturated fats are _sure_ to cause a heart attack.”

“Do you ever switch off, doc?” she’d teased, her nose wrinkling in that way that made his heart lurch as she’d punched lightly at his arm.

“ _Hey,_ ” he’d laughed, rubbing at his skin.

Their journey had continued, the road open and smooth before them, the sun reflecting a haze against the tarmac as Toronto disappeared into a black dot in their rear-view mirror. And, when Avonlea inched nearer, welcoming them home in the distance, they had found their journey stalled once more, Gilbert slowing the car as the glare of brake lights shone back on them, cars bumper to bumper along the motorway.

“I wonder what’s happening,” he’d said, straining over the cars for a clue to what could have blocked the road. “Maybe an accident?”

“Great. Exactly what we needed today.”

And that was where they had been for the past two hours. With the engine switched off, Gilbert eyed each of Anne’s movements as she fidgeted restlessly. And he faithfully memorised each of those movements of hers as the day matured around them.

“Say what you want, Gilbert Blythe, but this is _not_ my fault,” Anne shot, turning towards him, only to catch his eyes resting upon her. “I wasn’t the one who needed to sleep, was I? Nor am I the one who drives like a grandma.”

Gilbert lifted his hand to his chest, feigning indignation. “You wound me, Red.”

“Good,” she snapped. “That was the intention.”

A sharp burst of laughter escaped him, Gilbert flashing Anne a glimpse of his endearingly crooked teeth, and Anne felt herself dissolve with laughter too. The situation was simply too ridiculous. It was just her luck that she would find herself delayed for work. Things had a terrible knack for never going her way.

“Look,” Gilbert reasoned, “you work from home, right? So just do whatever you need to here. Who’ll ever know you’re not at your desk?”

Anne held her breath as he looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to agree. And she would have, except for one very large problem. Anne had lied and she was, in fact, _very_ late for the extremely boring office job that she kept in the centre of Avonlea. She could picture Ted now, striding from his office and eyeing Anne’s desk, her blue swivel chair by the window still vacant. She could envision so clearly the _exact_ shade of purple he would turn, his fingers twitching at his side with quiet rage, a jerk to his neck as he fought to silence the anger that threatened to unleash itself upon the two other people who shared Anne’s office. He would turn abruptly on his heel, storming back into his office and slamming the door behind him before he threw himself into his chair, steepling his fingers and planning a punishment befitting her crime. All of it would be playing out at that very moment, Anne was certain, as she sat miles from Avonlea in a car that wasn’t moving anywhere anytime soon.

She smiled tightly at Gilbert.

“I didn’t bring my laptop,” she mumbled. “I didn’t think I’d need it.”

“Not to worry.”

Gilbert reached into the back seat of the car, Anne listening to the tear of a zip as the teeth parted, the shuffling sound of contents being moved around inside a bag, before Gilbert drew back, seating himself beside her once more.

“You can borrow mine.”

He held a slim white MacBook out towards her, the top grubby with years of use. Anne stared down at it, taking it from him with a forced smile.

“Thanks.”

“You can check your emails or whatever you need to.”

He watched as Anne opened the laptop. The screen flashed to life almost immediately as an image of a bright summer’s day filled it: Gilbert cross-legged in the grass, his head ducked as he pressed a kiss to his nephew’s shoulder, the little boy wriggling in his lap as his niece hugged around his shoulders, her front tooth missing as she beamed towards the camera.

“Your niece and nephew are adorable,” Anne laughed. 

She studied the image, recognising the trees in the background to be from the park in Avonlea. Gilbert looked younger in the image, more carefree, his hair messy and his skin tanned lightly from the sun. 

She smiled. “You look really happy.” She glanced up at him, finding his eyes fixed on the image, the ghost of a smile flickering over his face.

“Yeah,” he agreed, wistfully. “I was.”

The fog of memory lifted from him, his eyes raising to Anne’s. 

His smile turned sheepish beneath her gaze. “But it’s hard not to be with those two around. It’s always hard to leave home knowing they’ll be so much bigger next time I’m back.”

“You could always visit more often,” Anne suggested. Gilbert’s gaze dropped from Anne, his cheeks colouring with a shamefaced flush. “I don’t think they are the only ones who would be glad to see you.”

Gilbert’s eyes snapped to hers, uncertain if the meaning he had reaped from Anne's words had been intentional as they sank through the silence and settled upon him. He hadn't allowed himself to dream that Anne might miss him when the summer had ended and they found themselves parted. Anne's letter would be a mystery, resigned to never being solved as Gilbert escaped unscathed, settling back into his life in the city. But there was an openness to her expression, to how her eyes grew large and her pupils flickered between his, that made him think that she might have. His fingernails scratched along the nape of his neck as his eyes locked to hers.

“Yeah?” he asked.

It was quiet. Uncertain. Anne nodded. 

“Yeah.”

Anne found herself unable to breath at the intensity in his gaze. It was as though the air inside the car had thinned and, lacking the oxygen her rapidly beating heart demanded, she could have sworn that as his eyes flickered, they had fallen to her lips. He was too close, the space too compact. She imagined he could hear the rush of her blood beneath her skin.

“I’m sure Bash and Mary will miss you when you go,” she blurted.

Gilbert jerked away, the expression that had startled her stunned from his face. 

Anne swallowed back and persisted forward. “And Moody. It must be pretty dull to have only Charlie here all the time.”

Gilbert’s gaze dropped to his hands. His brow knitted together as he turned them so his palms faced upwards and he studied them as though they were something new that had sprouted at that very moment. 

Anne felt her heart sink within her, wondering if it was disappointment that made him look that way: shoulders sloped, unable to meet her gaze. 

Gilbert nodded once, a sharp, curt nod, and glanced up at her.

“It doesn’t look like we’re moving anywhere anytime soon,” he said. His fingers found the handle to the door. “I think I’m going to go and see what the holdup is.”

Anne stared after him as he wrenched the door open and climbed from the car. He arched his back slightly, working out the tightness from the long journey, before striding from the car and from her, his figure slouched, hands balling into fists at his sides before relaxing he paced the side of the road towards the site of whatever was keeping them cooped up together.

Anne waited until she could no longer see him before looking back down at the screen of his laptop, her finger stretching out involuntarily to trace the image: the angle of Gilbert’s jaw, his chin ducked towards his chest, the fullness of his hair and breath of his shoulders. Strong forearms threaded with veins as his fingers tickled at the toddler’s tummy. Anne’s heart swelled at how carefree he seemed. No pressing decisions to be made or emerald rings tucked into his pocket. No end of summer closing in like a speeding car before a crash.

She sighed, dragging her eyes from the three figures on the grass to load the browser. There wasn’t too much she could do away from her cramped desk in the office, but she could check her emails. When the page had loaded, Anne found her inbox decidedly empty, save for two emails from a farmer who had agreed to let her interview him and one very angry message from Ted. The tone of the latter was undermined by the preloaded sign-off that ended each of his emails.

_You better have a good excuse for not turning in today._

_Best regards,_

_Ted Phillips_

Anne deleted it. She had already resigned herself to being on his hit-list for the foreseeable future. A reply would only stoke the flames and make the situation worse. She closed the tab, pushing Gilbert’s laptop closed and drumming her fingers against it and she waited for him to return. 

He didn’t. 

Anne grew bored and she reluctantly opened the laptop again, reloading the browser, signing into her Google account, and opening a document that she had secreted away. Her eyes trailed over each typed word as the screen filled with neat black cursive, a bold heading above it reading _The Love Letter._

Anne had started documenting her search after her “date” with Billy, the night she had laid in the meadow beside Gilbert. She had found it was cathartic to write; it felt like she was healing her disappointment after each failed encounter. There were parts of her, elements of who she was that she had thought she’d lost, that resurfaced when written in black and white. She was braver than she believed herself to be, hand rubbing over the knuckles that had connected with Billy’s nose. And she could be funny too, her fingers beginning to dance over the keys as she detailed her journey to Toronto: Gilbert’s warm laughter at her side as they played endless games of Fuck, Marry, Kill. She was trusting, whispered words in a dark room reminding her that she was capable of opening up to people, despite feeling like she shouldn’t. And as she typed what had happened back in Roy’s apartment, she saw that she was capable of making a decision and seeing it through.

Anne was under no illusion that she _meant_ anything to Roy Gardner. She had gone home fully aware that she was just one of a long list of conquests, but she had needed to forget about the hazel eyes that seemed to have been imprinted onto the backs of her eyelids each time she blinked. And, to her surprise, she hadn’t regretted going home with him. Not until she’d returned to Gilbert’s apartment, her bare feet slipping along the tiles, almost echoing in the silence of the space, and she’d noticed that the sliding door to the balcony was ajar, finding Gilbert alone on the balcony, staring out over the city as it came alive in the small hours of the morning. Anne flooded with regret as his eyes met hers, smothered with the desire to have stayed with him that night.

But she couldn’t have stayed. Not while Winifred was there, her hand resting upon Gilbert’s knee. Not while the lights flashed and crystal decanters filled with expensive champagne arrived and, unknown to her, conversations detailing a graduate programme that would better his prospects occurred. 

What could she offer him that wasn’t just herself? Her plain face and freckled skin and hair that she was still learning to love. She was clumsy and uncertain and stuck. And he’d become stuck with her, and Anne would feel as though she was holding him back. They would become stagnant, thrust back into the frostiness of their relationship during their school days and regretting every second of it. Because, despite her better judgement, everything that eighteen-year-old Anne held as a matter of principle, the Anne she currently was quite liked having Gilbert Blythe in her life, even just for a moment.

Anne had become so preoccupied in her writing, fingers dancing over the keys as she defined each detail of the interior if the Royal Ontario Museum, from the apex at the entrance to the gallery she had stood in as Roy pressed an unwanted kiss to her lips, the feeling like she was losing something she didn’t own as she left, wounded hazel eyes burning into her back as she weaved through the crowd, that she hadn’t noticed a figure approaching in the distance. 

Anne startled as the door to the driver’s side opened and Gilbert climbed in beside her.

“There was a crash,” he explained, his expression faltering as Anne blushed, hastily jerking the screen from his view to hide what she was writing.

“Is everyone alright?” she asked as she shut his laptop and slid it onto the back seat.

“Fine,” he replied. He righted his seatbelt, returned the keys to the ignition. “Just a few scratches. I helped clean them up a little. The police are moving things along now.”

He felt his skin grow hot as he felt Anne’s eyes on him, and turned to see her study him, a gentle smile curving the fullness of her mouth. 

“What?” he asked.

“You are inherently good. Do you know that?”

He felt his heart constrict, his mouth quirk at her praise as he tore his eyes from her, twisting the car keys and coaxing the engine to life. 

He shot her an embarrassed grin. “Shut up.”

Not two hours later, they found themselves back in Avonlea, winding through the familiar streets Anne cycled countless times before. They passed her office, the lights inside reminding her the work day had not yet ended. The buildings around them became sparse as they drove out towards Green Gables.

Anne held her breath as Gilbert slowed the car, disappointed to see Green Gables sprawl before her as he turned into the driveway, quieting the engine at the foot of the steps to the porch. Reality impended like the afternoon train.

“So,” Gilbert said. 

Anne got the impression he was speaking to fill the silence, masking her reluctance to leave. “So.”

He dropped his gaze from her, eyes landing on her thighs before he caught himself, flushing brightly and turning back towards the windscreen. “I…” 

He paused. 

Anne watched as his palm rubbed roughly against the leg of his jeans. 

He raised his head, eyes meeting Anne’s once more. The corner of his mouth tugged with a fleeting smile. “I had fun this weekend.” And as though to clarify, he added hastily, “Uhm, with you.”

Anne felt her mouth curve with a smile.

“Yeah,” she agreed. Her laughter was quiet and breathy. Gilbert's features brightened. “I am pretty fun, aren’t I?”

A teasing smirk twisted his lips, Gilbert rolling his eyes in mock annoyance. “Not to mention _so_ humble.”

Anne grinned. “I’m a delight, really.”

His laughter was short, but hearty, Anne watching as his fingertips tapped at the steering wheel. “ _That_ you are.”

It was a joke. Anne knew it was a joke but his expression took on a softness that had the ability to draw the air from her. She felt her heartbeat quickening, her body tremble with something unseen, legs weakening beneath her.

“I should go,” she rushed, turning from him to find the door handle. She wrenched it open, climbing shakily from the car. She heard the driver’s door open, Gilbert’s feet against the gravel as he went to the trunk to retrieve her bag, rounding the car to stand beside her.

“So..” He handed her the bag, brushed his hand along the back of his neck. He appeared nervous when he spoke. Anne refused to herself to wonder why. “Is Roy Gardner the one?”

Anne imagined it was relief that she could see relaxing his features when she told him no, the thought of it sparking something hopeful inside her, something Anne attempted to douse with reality. He was with Winifred and she knew he would soon propose and Winnie would be wearing the ring that slipped so easily onto Anne’s finger. Toronto was where he wanted to be, and Anne was of the island. There was no future for him with her. Stagnant water surrounding two slowly sinking bodies, that was all.

“But he’s someone I’d like to get to know.”

Gilbert’s features fell, his head ducking from her as he nodded slowly. Once. Twice. He glanced back up at Anne at the sound of a door opening, wood creaking beneath the weight of footsteps. He spotted Marilla standing on the porch, her arms crossing her chest as she watched them.

His eyes fell to Anne once more, hesitating before inclining his head towards the car.

“I suppose I should go.”

Anne nodded, her fingers tightening around the handle of her bag, restraining herself from reaching for him. Keeping her with her just a moment longer. She could feel the weight of Marilla’s stare, could almost hear her thoughts, wondering why Gilbert lingered. Anne did too.

“I suppose.”

His eyes flickered over her once more, along her brow, her rounded eyes, dipping to her lips. His mouth quirked with a quick smile, head bowed as he widened the gap between them.

“See you.”

“I’ll call you.” 

She watched him turn, surprising herself as his name fell from her lips. 

“Gilbert!”

His body curved slowly as he turned to her, an expectant expression on his face.

“Thank you,” she said. “For this weekend. Thank you.”

Quick steps brought him to her side, crowding Anne's space as the gap between them narrowed. He leant in slowly, Anne’s blood pounding in her ears as his breath burnt like a brand against her skin. She felt him falter, question himself, and then, softly his lips brushed against her cheek. A surprised squeak escaped her rounded mouth at the contact. Anne felt as though she was melting, her body coming alive with electricity as he lingered just a moment longer. She felt his lips relax once more, his breath hot along her cheek drawing her blood to below the surface. She wasn't sure when but her eyes had closed. She opened them slowly, gaze darting towards him to see his brow furrow. 

And then she was cold as he pulled away. Her hand came up to touch where his lips pressed against her, preserving the sensation of him a little longer. His gaze fell upon her hand, roved to her eyes.

His face flickered with something that looked like a smile, although Anne thought it downcast. His voice low as he murmured, “I wish things had been different. "

And then he was gone. The door slammed closed behind him and the engine rattled as he pulled out of the driveway and disappeared from Anne’s view, leaving her standing at the foot of the porch hand pressed to burning skin as she pondered just what he could have meant. Standing until the feeling of Gilbert had all but vanished.

She blushed as she turned, seeing Marilla at the top of the steps, an unreadable look on her face. Anne climbed the porch slowly, pushing through the door and into the kitchen as Marilla followed her.

“You and Gilbert Blythe seem very friendly,” Marilla observed.

Anne sighed, a spark of irritation making her words sharp. “He has a girlfriend,” she said, irritably.

Marilla’s expression was blank. “I didn’t realise that meant you couldn’t be friends.”

Anne felt her mouth fall open to protest, but something in how Marilla was looking at her made Anne think she had given away too much. She watched as Marilla returned to the sitting room, settling into her chair by the fireplace, her programmes playing loudly as she took her embroidery onto her knee. 

Anne was left alone in the quiet, her cheek still warmed with Gilbert’s kiss. And she kept wondering when the exact moment was that Gilbert had become someone she considered as a little more than just a friend.

**********

_Blink._

_Blink._

_Blink._

The cursor on Anne’s computer flickered before her, the black bar disappearing and reappearing once more, highlighting the horribly uninspiring words filling the screen before her.

A little over a week had passed since Gilbert had driven Anne home, stopping short of the porch steps. It had been a little over a week since she had felt the warmth of his breath against her cheek and felt the heat his closeness had brought to her. A little over a week since she had watched the car round the fence that lined her garden, disappearing from view. And it had been a little over a week since she had heard from him, the velvety warmth of his voice vibrating over her skin.

It had been her choice, of course. She had been disconcerted by him, alarmed at how the feeling of his breath against her could linger as long as it had, the ghost of a kiss still burning into her skin. She had decided that night, as she’d closed her eyes and saw him – as clear as though he was sitting before her, his presence causing her blood to thrum, a heat to pooling low in her stomach – that she needed to put some distance between them. 

If that weekend had been burning metal, something slow and glowing, then distance would be a bucket of cooling water that she would plunge the memory into, hearing it sizzle as it cooled. She needed to find her flow once more, to regain her centre of balance. But after a week, she thought perhaps that that should have happened already, and yet she still found him there, settled into the recesses of her mind, each time she found it vacant. 

So, she did what she could to fill her time, assisting Ruby with selecting blooms for her wedding bouquet, worrying that evening when she reflected on how tired her friend looked. She read when she could and steered her bike out towards the cliffs, dropping it onto the grass and sitting there, staring out over the water until the sun began to set and she found herself thinking how much Gilbert would appreciate the view. She rested her head in Marilla’s lap as they watched _Golden Girls_ , Anne forcing laughter at scenes that she had found hilarious before.

And when Ted Phillips had called her into his office the Tuesday of the previous week, twisting one end of his moustache between pinched fingers as he interrogated her on just _why_ she hadn’t arrived to work the previous day, Anne was gladdened by the extra workload he had given her. One of her assignments was interviewing Mr Boulter after a string of break-ins in his shop, and Anne sometimes found herself working late into the evening to finish up her stories.

For the past week Anne had been the model employee, Ted nodding gruffly, mumbling his approval as she finished her articles for the farming section promptly, penning a short piece on when best to sow for a healthy winter crop, and how to ready a greenhouse before the autumn arrived. She had cycled to an asparagus farm just outside of town, where she interviewed a farmer on a sustainable sprinkler system he had employed, repurposing plastic bottles and rainwater from a homemade reservoir to keep his crops healthy. Anne wandered alongside him, making shorthand notes as he spoke, impressed at his ingenuity and she found herself enthused as she typed her story, marking it as the leading piece in that week’s farming section. 

However, that morning, she had found herself in Mr Boulter’s shop.

Mr Boulter’s store had been “brutally vandalised,” as he had declared to Anne upon her arrival, twice in the past week. 

Anne had bitten her lip to suppress a laugh as he detailed mournfully where the assailants had entered, giving a vivid description of two boys not yet finished puberty, and what they had taken. “Right through there,” he’d stated morosely, pointing towards the main entrance. “Two of them, the bloody brutes. Pushing through the door like a pair of hooligans!”

Anne had frowned. “They entered through the front door?”

“Yes.”

She’d eyed the camera above them, pointing directly towards the entrance. “And CCTV didn’t catch them?”

“They’re too quick for CCTV,” he’d declared, bristling at the lack of understanding Anne had displayed. She’d imagined Charlie hanging off his every word, clicking his tongue sympathetically as he noted down each word Mr Boulter uttered. “And you’ll never believe what they’ve stolen!”

“A peanut butter KitKat and a nudey magazine,” Ka’Kwet had guessed when Anne had arrived back to their office that afternoon and posed the question to her colleagues.

“Oh! So close!” Anne cried. 

Charlie rolled his eyes at their antics.

“A limited edition salted caramel KitKat Chunky and a nudey magazine?” Ka’kwet tried again.

“And we have a winner!” Anne had called, laughing as Ka’Kwet bounced on her toes, dancing behind her desk. “Your prize, madam.”

She’d tossed a KitKat to Ka’Kwet, settling at her desk, and opened her email as Ka’Kwet rambled in the background.

“Oh my goodness, this is such an overwhelming moment. I don’t know what to say. Well, firstly, I’d like to thank mom and dad for getting it on all those years ago. Without them, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Would you stop making light of this?” Charlie had scolded, his features pinched as he looked from Ka’Kwet to Anne. “This is a very serious matter. Those children are harassing him.”

“Please,” Anne had scoffed. “The man is basically a celebrity because these _mysterious youths_ that CCTV can never catch keep stealing from him. I’d bet you this month’s wages those Playboy magazines are hidden beneath his own mattress.”

“Anne, that’s a very serious allegation.”

Anne had shrugged, smirking as she pulled an embroidery magazine from inside her bag. She opened it flat on her desk, leaning over it.

“Where did you get that?” Charlie had asked accusingly.

Anne lifted her head to him and grinned. “I swiped it from Mr Boulter’s shop. He’s going to need some fodder for his front-page article next week.”

“I sincerely hope you’re joking,” he’d whispered, his skin blanching.

Anne shrugged innocently, winking at Ka’Kwet.

As lunch ended, the clock ticking closer to the end of the day, Anne’s fingers tripped clumsily over keys, typing up a dull article on the shoplifting fiasco, chuckling inwardly at the terrible pun she had penned as a heading.

**_Thieves at Boulters’ Convenience Store Won’t Have a Break as They Steal a KitKat_ **

The hours passed slowly, time crawling by as Anne’s typed, and soon she found the time had creeped to four forty-five. Anne sprung to her feet.

“Oh shoot!”

She fumbled, knocking over the pen pot on her desk as she attached the article to an email, sending it through to Ted to proof before it was printed. She dove below her desk, pulling her bag from below it, the strap catching and dragging her backwards. She yanked it free, racing towards the door.

“Just _where_ do you think you’re going?” Charlie blustered as she crossed their office. 

“I have a dress fitting,” she rambled. “And I’m late.”

“You still have fifteen minutes until quitting time. Anne. Anne!”

Anne ignored him, rushing from the office and into the open, eyes roving over the street until she spotted Diana’s blue car parked across the road. She dodged traffic, wrenching open the door and sliding onto the cool leather beside her.

“You’re late,” Diana snapped.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Diana rolled her eyes, twisting the key, the engine humming beneath them as Anne fumbled with her belt.

“I swear, Anne. I told you to be ready early. I specifically said, ‘ _Anne, please don’t be late.’_ And what happens? You’re late! Ruby will go ballistic. You _know_ what she’s like at the moment.”

“We’re only running behind by fifteen minutes,” Anne pointed out as Diana swerved them out of the town and onto the road towards Charlottetown.

“Don’t try to reason with me, Anne. Do you think I have all day to sit around waiting for you? I’m _busy._ What are you doing?”

She watched from the corner of her eye as Anne delved into her bag in the footwell, pulling a KitKat from among her belongings.

“Would a KitKat sweeten the deal?” she asked, holding it out for Diana to take.

“No.” Diana inhaled deeply, holding her breath briefly before letting it go. “What flavour?”

Anne laughed. “Peanut butter.”

“Hand it over.”

“So, how’s work?” Diana asked as she sped her car onto the motorway, brushing KitKat crumbs from her neat blue dress.

“Fine,” Anne replied. “It’s work. Nothing new going on there.” She paused, turning from Diana to stare out the window, thinking back on the last time this scenery had flashed past her. “Only Mr Boulter’s shop was broken into again.”

“Again?” Diana harrumphed. “I reckon that man is doing it himself, you know. How have these kids never been caught? I teach kids and I tell you now: kids are _not_ that smart.”

Anne giggled as Diana ranted, glancing towards her friend to see her flick on the indicator, moving into the next lane. “I think you underestimate them.”

“I don’t _underestimate_ them,” Diana complained. “I had a kid hand in _Reach for the Stars_ by S Club 7 as his musical composition piece last week and when I pulled him on it, he told me ‘ _Miss, I didn’t think you’d know that song. It’s so old.’_ I was born in the nineties, Daryll, don’t fucking school me on S Club 7, you know?” 

Diana’s cheeks reddened as she spoke, her knuckles white as her grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“So, I see your stress levels have mellowed out,” Anne joked, a sharp burst of laughter ripping from Diana’s lungs.

“I know nothing but bloody stress at the moment,” she grumbled. “I’ll arrive at my own wedding _haggard._ Everyone will see me walk down the aisle and think, jeez, nobody told me Jerry’s marrying the bloody Crypt Keeper.”

“Diana, you haven’t been engaged for a full month yet! July isn’t even out.”

“I _know_ that. And it’s not the wedding. I swear it’s not the wedding.”

“Then what is it?”

Diana looked at her pointedly. “Do you even need to ask?”

Anne groaned. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Diana parroted. “Oh. I swear, my mother is the _most_ overbearing woman. I thought she’d reached her peak when Minnie May came out, but no. I swear, she hasn’t changed from black since I told her I'm engaged. She said she can’t visit me anymore. Can’t be seen in the slums. I said ‘ _Mother, we’ll be in the same fucking house we’ve always been in so quit with the amateur dramatics’_ and then she cried and went to her room. Minnie May is delighted though. She was caught smoking weed last weekend and mother hasn’t said anything to her because she’s too preoccupied with my poorness.”

“Ouch.”

“Yes. Ouch.” Diana rubbed at her chest, her fingers pressing into her lungs. “I feel like I need a cigarette. Reach into the glove compartment there, will you? There should be a box of them.”

“Diana,” Anne gasped. “You’re supposed to have quit.”

“Don’t deny someone their coping mechanisms, Anne,” she retorted, urging Anne to reach for the box and fumbling to light one. 

She cracked the window and Diana expelled a cloud of smoke through it, the smell curling around Anne and clinging to her clothes. She saw the tension in Diana’s shoulders dissipate.

“And how is Jerry taking it?” Anne asked as Diana took another drag.

“Fine,” Diana replied carelessly before pausing. “Well, not really fine. We’ve been fighting.”

“Oh, Diana, I’m sorry.”

Diana waved her hand distractedly. “I’m sure it’s nothing. He keeps saying we should just book somewhere abroad and get married while we’re there. That it would be easier. But it’s easier for boys, you know?” Diana glanced towards Anne. “Weddings never mean as much to them.”

Anne thought back on Gilbert, the ring in his pocket and the look to his face when he told Anne it felt like the right time to propose; his mouth saying what his body language didn’t. Anne wasn’t sure if that was fair. Weddings could cause stress to them too.

“I _want_ my dad to walk me down the aisle,” Diana continued. “And for Minnie May to hate her dress and for my Aunt Josephine to get drunk at the reception and insist on the DJ playing ABBA. Is that too much to ask?”

Anne shrugged. “I guess not.”

“It’s not. Not at… Would you stay in your own lane, you bloody bastard!” she bellowed through the window. “You almost cut me off!”

“Sure,” Anne nodded, her voice laced with a laugh. “Because the stress of planning a wedding will suit you so well.”

Diana giggled, taking a drag on her cigarette, and tapping ash out into the evening air.

“And what about you?” she asked Anne, glancing towards her. “How was the big Toronto adventure? Any closer to getting a ring on your finger?”

Anne laughed at the question, deciding it better to not tell Diana she _had,_ in fact, had a ring on her finger and shared a marital bed quicker than any of her friends had. She knew Diana would relish in the story, but it was Anne’s secret. Anne and Gilbert’s. Anne liked that it was something that only the two of them knew. A secret that they shared.

“It was good,” she said instead, as the image of Gilbert on his knee, the soft glow of the streetlights reflected in his eyes, filled her mind. She felt her smile drop, her hand pressing against her chest as she felt a wince of pain, his eyes transforming into the broken expression he had worn when she had left the party, Anne struggling to know what it meant.

“And Gilbert survived it?” Diana’s voice was teasing, making light of the stormy relationship they had once shared, but Anne felt so removed from there now. 

She felt closer to him than she had to almost anyone, remembering he had chosen her to be the person he shared his whispered confessions with in the dark. She turned towards the window, obscuring her face from Diana in case the tenderness in her heart seeped through her skin, and she accidentally wore it outwardly for Diana to see.

“Yes,” she answered firmly. “We’re friends now.”

“Friends?” Diana pressed. 

Anne swivelled towards her to see her raise her eyebrows in disbelief. “Yes.”

“I don’t think it’s possible for you and Gilbert to be friends,” Diana replied easily, Anne’s heart quickening as she spoke.

“Why?”

Her voice was terse, defensive, and she felt herself blush at the obvious annoyance in it.

“Why?” Diana giggled. “Because, _Anne,_ if you weren’t wanting to rip each other’s heads off, you were wanting to rip each other’s clothes off.”

“I don’t want to rip his head off,” Anne laughed. She paused, chewing thoughtfully on her lip. “He’s different from what I remember. I think I judged him too harshly.”

“So, you want to rip his clothes off?” Diana teased, Anne’s head jerking to Diana at the question.

“What?! I don’t want to…”

“I just said,” Diana interrupted with a smug smile. “If you weren’t one, you were the other. _You_ admitted, Ms. Shirley-Cuthbert, that you don’t want to rip his head off, so it must be his clothes.”

“ _Diana_.”

“You’ve gone all red,” Diana giggled, drawing from her cigarette. “Anne, it’s fine if you want to. Sometimes adults do this thing called…”

“Diana!” Anne interrupted, hiding her flaming cheeks beneath her cool palms. “Quit it!”

“ _When a man loves a woman,”_ Diana crooned in her sweet singing voice, her cheeks pinkened with mirth.

“This is _way_ more mortifying than it needs to be.”

“But you want to, right?” Diana pressed. “Jump his bones? Do the nasty? Or whatever the kids call it these days.”

"As an educator of youths, your knowledge on what kids think is cool is surprisingly lacking," Anne drawled, sarcastically. 

Diana cackled. "Stop trying to change the subject."

"I _wasn't_."

 _“_ Oh, come on. It’s just me!”

“I went home with Roy Gardner,” Anne exploded. 

Diana’s laughter died at the admission. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Anne hissed. “Oh.”

“And did anything happen?”

Anne deadpanned. “He showed me his Sylvanian Family collection and we played a little,” she quipped. “What do you _think_ happened?”

“Right.” Diana nodded, lips pursed. “And it was…?” she pried.

Anne sighed. “Fine, I guess. I mean it was _nice._ Good?”

“Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself,” Diana stated, her words plain and even. Her eyes darted to Anne, a pointed look to her face.

“It was weird,” Anne admitted.

And it was true. Roy had done everything right. He’d been attentive when he’d brought her home, leading her to his couch and joking as he’d popped the cork of the bottle of champagne he’d pulled from the cooler, fizzing bubbles spilling onto the wooden floor. 

“What was it you said about men and champagne bottles?” he’d asked and Anne found herself emboldened, becoming someone she didn’t know as she took the glass from him, taking a swill and leaning forward suggestively, desperate to rid herself of a pair of hazel eyes that had followed her to the doorway.

“Perhaps you’ll have to prove it to me,” she’d said, shocking herself.

Anne wasn’t flirtatious. She didn’t have that gift other women seemed to possess: a capability to make a man go weak at the knees. But, to her surprise, a ravenous grin spread on his handsome face. His growl had been low, one knee pinning her to the cushions as his frame covered her, his alcohol tinged breath hot in her ear.

“Perhaps I do.”

Roy had known what he was doing, Anne wasn’t able to deny it, but as his weight pressed into her, his tongue assaulting her neck and teeth nipping at the strap of her dress, she’d found herself screwing her eyes shut against his hot gaze and had found two hazel eyes staring back at her in her mind, green and gold glinting in the sunlight, staring down at her as the rain soaked his hair. As she felt Roy’s mouth trail along her skin, peppering kisses on long neglected parts of her, she swore she’d almost whispered Gilbert’s name, her eyes flying open to see raven black hair curling slightly at the ears as opposed to messy chocolate curls. 

And no matter how fervently Anne had kissed him, she couldn’t shake the ghost of Gilbert Blythe. Not as Roy’s thumbs brushed along the base of her ribs, or as he found the hem of her dress, sliding it upwards. Not as she’d curled her leg around Roy’s waist, his mouth finding her collarbone. She could still see Gilbert, his wide smile when she’d made a joke he wasn’t expecting, the feel of his hands in the lengths of her hair. The heat to his gaze as she sat beside him, his eyes tracing the exposed skin on her shoulder. Or the sorrow that seemed to permeate his gaze as he’d watched her leave, Anne turning back briefly to see him still on the dancefloor before he walked slowly back to his girlfriend. No, not girlfriend. Soon to be fiancée. And she’d found herself wondering if what she thought she’d seen was an illusion; a trick of the lights and the champagne that spiked her blood.

But when she’d felt Roy’s hand trail to her inner thigh, she’d felt her eyes widen, something in her forcing her to reach out, gripping his wrist to still him.

“Is everything okay?” he’d asked. 

Anne could see she’d unnerved him. This wasn’t the usual reaction he had from women.

“Fine,” she’d choked, attempting to sit upright, finding he’d still pinned her leg in place.

“Okay.” His tone had been measured, trying to settle her once more.

She’d thrown the contents of her glass back, swallowing it in one gulp and hiccoughing as the bubbles hit her stomach.

“Do you like games?”

He’d laughed.

“I do.” He leaned over her once more, teeth nipping at her earlobe. “I sort of thought that’s what we were doing.”

The pinch was a little too painful to be pleasurable and, as Anne felt his mouth begin to suck a mark to her skin, evidence she would have preferred wasn’t there, she’d heard herself say, “Fuck, marry, kill: Iron Man, Thor or Captain America?”

His laughter had been exasperated as his forehead fell to her shoulder. “Aw man, you are _killing_ me.”

“Who would you choose?”

He’d lifted his head, his eyes flickering to her breasts, his tongue wetting his lips. “I’d like to…” he’d paused, pressing a rough kiss to her lips. “Fuck you.”

“I’m not an option,” she’d argued, forcing a breathy laugh into her voice as she’d wriggled away from the onslaught of his mouth. “Play properly. Please?”

Roy had sighed, pulling away and refilling his glass and then hers. “Who again? Captain America…?”

“Thor or Iron Man,” Anne had reminded him, righting the strap on her shoulder, and taking the glass from him.

“And me being here with you is making you think I’m interested in men because…?” he’d asked, his eyebrow cocked.

“It’s only a game.”

“It’s done wonders for my confidence,” he’d joked. 

He had nothing to worry about, Anne had reassured him. But she was certain _all_ of the women that had gone home with him before weren’t trying to kill something within themselves. Something that felt all-encompassing, as it burnt through her. It was cruel, what she was doing, when she thought about it like that.

“Marry Captain America, kill Iron Man, fuck Thor.”

Anne grinned at the answer, reminiscing on when she had asked Gilbert the same question.

“Oh.” She’d smirked suggestively. “So, you’re into big hammers?”

Roy’s face stared back at her blankly, the joke lost to him. “Can we get back to our other game now?” he’d asked, fixing her with a dark stare and Anne found herself nodding, unable to stall any longer.

And then he was on her again, hands sliding below her skirt, Anne wishing she was back in a car with a boy who was about to begin a life with someone else.

She swallowed at the memory, turning to Diana and shrugging. “He did everything right but he isn’t the letter boy,” she admitted. 

She’d known it from the moment she had stepped into the elevator in Gilbert’s apartment building. From the moment she had turned to see Roy Gardner smiling down at her. He wasn’t the one she was looking for.

“Oh no!” Diana chimed. “He’s the one I had predicted!”

Her mouth downturned with a sulky pout. “I bet it will be Cole,” she lamented. “And Ruby will win.”

Anne laughed. “I don’t know,” she mused as Diana slowed the car near the entrance to a car park, the boutique they were visiting situated on the opposite side of the street. “I’m starting to think it may have been a prank after all.”

She laughed hollowly at her admission. The thought had occurred to her before, her list growing smaller with no sign of him, and as the search continued, Anne worried that she didn’t want to find him. She just persisted because she liked being with Gilbert. Without the quest, what would tether them together? She wasn’t ready to lose him yet.

“Nonsense,” Diana insisted, Anne blinking back to reality. “It has to be someone. Who’s left?”

“Paul Langdon,” Anne listed. “Cole McKenzie.”

“Charlie?”

Anne groaned. “Not likely.”

“What about Gilbert?” Diana asked. Her question was flippant, not realising how it had affected Anne, her stomach clenching, heart racing at the sound of his name.

“It’s not Gilbert.”

Anne’s reply had been hasty, almost a shout as she spoke. Diana’s eyebrows rounded, her laughter at the ferocity of Anne’s reply tinkling.

“It can’t be Gilbert,” she reiterated, her voice levelled with faux nonchalance.

“If you say so,” Diana replied 

Anne got the impression that she was barely listening as she came upon a parking space, a small black car rounding them and zipping into the space before Diana had the chance to indicate.

“Mother _fucker,_ ” Diana hissed. 

As her tiny hands thumped at the wheel, Anne realised just how relieved she was that the conversation had come to an end.

**********

Gilbert crossed his legs, his foot bouncing restlessly as he sat with Bash and Dellie in the living room of his family home. It was getting late, the room lit only by the soft lamp in the corner and the glare of the television. Wreck-It Ralph was on a rampage on the TV screen, and Dellie was giggling from beside him on the sofa, curled into her father’s side as Bash teased his hand through her hair, the little girl’s eyes heavy with sleep. 

It was a rare moment of quiet in their house, the days filled with noise now that school had ended for the summer. The days were filled by Bash calling after his children to keep it down when Mary had retired to bed again, feeling cramps low in her stomach. Gilbert thought of her now, eyes instinctively glancing toward the ceiling: the room she slept in was just above them. She had left them an hour earlier, her hand low on her stomach as she climbed the stairs. Gilbert bit his tongue to save an argument as she hated fuss. He fixed his eyes on the screen again, watched as a little man in a blue hat pulled a hammer from his pocket, and suppressed a smile as he recalled the blunder he had made during the first round of _Fuck, Marry, Kill_ that Anne had challenged him to. His hand tightened on the arm of the chair to stop himself from reaching for his phone and texting her.

It had been exactly a week and one day since he had left Anne at her home (not that he was counting) and he had yet to hear from her. He had spent the week in agonising anticipation, jumping towards his phone each time he heard it vibrate, disappointed to find it was just another email, or something from Moody, or a message from Winnie, or Bash asking if Gilbert was free to lend a hand when he was out in the orchard. And he did go and help when necessary. Anything to distract himself from _waiting_ , from wondering what exactly he had done wrong that meant she had frozen him out.

 _It had been the kiss_ , he thought. 

He hadn’t meant to lean in, moving on instinct and had only realised what had happened when his lips had hovered mere millimetres from her cheek, the scent of Anne enveloping him, a bouquet of wildflowers rendering him senseless. And at that stage, what was he to do? He couldn’t have pulled away. That would have made the situation more uncomfortable, he was certain. So, he kissed her, feeling his mouth meet her skin and finding himself unable to pull away, needing to stay in her heat just a millisecond longer. And as he’d drawn away, he watched her hand raise to her cheek and he knew he’d crossed a line. He had stepped beyond the boundaries of their friendship, something about kissing Anne felt like a point of no return. Like he would have to admit to himself something that he was aware orbited his brain every waking second of the day, but he was afraid to explore. It was too _intense,_ too uncertain. He’d pulled away and stalked back to the car, eyes fixed ahead, and didn’t turn back to see her disappear into the distance. 

But now he felt the weight of regret more than ever before, each passing moment that she didn’t call excruciating. She _must_ have been annoyed at him for closing the gap between them, for hovering too close. He knew Anne was on a mission, and he wasn’t going to be the one she would discover at the end of her adventure. The whole plan had been based on him not being found out. And yet, sometimes he found himself wishing she knew, if circumstances had been different. If he had written it because he wanted to, and not because he was forced. If he had told her the day she had discovered it when she had confronted him on the grass. 

But instead he had lied. 

And, in a way, he was glad that he had. If he hadn’t lied, then he would never get to know her the way he had. He would never have experienced her sense of humour or know how she looked when she was uncertain. He would never have known what it felt like to be held, even briefly, in her gaze or have her smile at him and mean it. He would never have known the dreams that she shared or the breathiness in her voice when she whispered.

And, with each day that passed, he found that he missed her.

It was almost sacrilegious when Bash had slid into the passenger seat of his dad’s car, Gilbert being so used to sharing the space with Anne. And when he had taken Dellie and Elijah to the park, and helped Dellie thread together a daisy chain that she wore as a crown, he had almost sent her the picture, remembering she thought his niece and nephew cute. He had bought _The Charlottetown Chronicle_ and scoured each page, disappointed when he hadn’t found her name printed in that edition. He had gone for a walk to pass the hour and found himself wandering through the park towards the meadow and the house hidden behind it, sitting in the grass and staring up at the old building before lying back, eyes closed, listening to the waves crash against the cliff face not far from him, reminiscing on when he had lay there with Anne, her hands twisting above her, moonlight dancing across her skin.

He felt his phone vibrate against his leg, jumping as the sensation drew him from his thoughts, his hand delving into his pocket to retrieve it.

Bash eyed him from across the sofa, watching as he unlocked the screen, his expression falling as he noted it wasn’t Anne. He pocketed it once more.

“What’s gotten into you?” Bash asked, his voice low so as to not disturb Dellie as she fought off sleep.

“Nothing,” Gilbert replied with a shrug. 

Bash raised an eyebrow. “Nothing?” 

Gilbert nodded as Bash chuckled, shaking his head. 

“Blythe, you’ve spent the past week _mooning,_ jumping for your phone every two minutes.”

“I haven't been mooning,” he argued.

“You have.”

“Is everything okay with the famous Winifred?” Bash asked, Gilbert shaking his head at his brother’s prying.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I thought you must have fallen out, is all,” Bash said. “When you were adventuring in the city.”

“Everything’s…”

Gilbert paused. Was everything fine with Winifred? He wasn’t so sure anymore. He had left Toronto in June with a ring in his pocket, believing it was destined for Winifred, and now every time he thought of it, he could only imagine a hand covered in freckles, the ring glowing against luminescent skin, twinkling in a sliver of moonlight in a dark room. He gulped, his eyes finding the toe of his shoe. He watched as it moved, distractedly spelling a word in the air. _A-N-N-E_. He stilled it. Dropped it flat against the floor. 

“Everything is fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“You’re sure you’re sure?”

“Bash! I’m sure,” he laughed and by way of explanation he added, “Just, I don’t know, _cold feet,_ I guess.”

“Cold feet?” Bash echoed, sitting forward in his chair, and disturbing Dellie on his knee.

“Hey!” she grumbled, sitting upright.

Bash ignored her pouting, his voice taking on the tone of protective father he had perfected when John Blythe had passed. “Cold feet over what? What do you have for your feet to be cold over?”

Gilbert stared ahead, feeling his brow furrow as he choked on his words. “I was thinking of proposing,” he admitted.

The room fell silent, Gilbert turning to see his brother watch him, a look to his face as though he had just been slapped.

“Well, fuck,” Bash breathed, Dellie glaring up at him.

“I’m telling Mummy you said a bad word,” she cried. 

Bash shushed her with a finger against his lips. “And Daddy is very bold for saying a bad word,” he said, before glancing back up at Gilbert. “I don’t know what to say.”

Gilbert flushed beneath his gaze, embarrassed now that it had been said out loud.

“Why didn’t you talk to me about this?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Gilbert relied.

“You’re not bothering me, Blythe. You’re my brother.”

“Well, I wasn’t really sure. Or I was, and now, I’m not so sure,” Gilbert admitted quietly.

His eyes found his hands, blunt fingernails picking distractedly at a torn cuticle. He missed the knowing look Bash gave him, his gaze softening as he eyed him. Gilbert was young, Bash knew that. He was still a little lost, and hadn’t found his way properly since their father had died. His tone became gentler as he spoke.

“And what makes you uncertain?”

Gilbert’s head snapped to Bash, lifting his shoulders into a shrug. He knew what made him uncertain. He had been separated from Winifred for almost a month and he hadn’t missed her nearly as much as he missed Anne in a week. How when something happened in his day, it was Anne he wanted to know about it. When he woke in the morning, he found himself thinking about her, wondering what she was doing that very moment. Wondering if she would call.

“I don’t know.” 

He swallowed the truth back down into his stomach. It was his secret; Bash’s teasing would be merciless if he was found out. And it could have been all smoke and no fire. Anne certainly wasn’t interested in him _._ It might have been something trivial and fleeting. Did you risk everything you’d built your life upon for a crush?

Bash's voice was measured, carefully selecting his words as he spoke. “It wouldn’t be… somebody else?”

“What? No! I…” He groaned, roughly dragging his hands down his face. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed. 

Dellie’s mouth rounding as she went to tattle. “Uncle Gilby said a bold word too!”

Bash hushed her, smoothing her hair back from her temples. “We’ll have to put him on the naughty step.”

Dellie pouted, nodding her approval before laying her head against him once more. 

Gilbert sighed resignedly. “I mean, it’s nothing really. I swear it isn’t.” He dropped his hands, fingers drumming against his leg as his foot began to bounce once more. “It’s _normal_ to be _attracted_ to someone else when you’re in a relationship, right? That’s normal.”

“Well, it depends,” Bash ventured. "It's completely normal to feel attraction to other people if it’s not serious. I've raised an eyebrow at a woman in the street but she'd have nothing on my Mary. The healthy thing to do, kid, is talk about it. Do you talk about things like that?" 

_No,_ Gilbert's mind told him. 

"Yes," he said. 

"Well then." Bash’s mouth widened with a smile. “You two should be fine.”

Gilbert felt his jaw clench, his brow furrow as he wondered if they were fine. If he would be able to come back from this. He was distracted, his mind wandering, and in the dark of his room, when it was just him and his thoughts, it wasn’t Winnie he imagined warming his bed, his palm smoothing across the sheets and finding them cold when he burned inside. Gilbert wondered how understanding Winnie would be if he told her of his attraction for Anne. He felt like he already knew the answer. 

“Look, kid,” Bash began, fixing Gilbert with a genuine look as he saw his face become troubled. “It could just be a crush. Give it time to pass.”

Gilbert nodded thoughtfully, supposing Bash was right. It had been a crush before; an incessant interest that caused him to behave badly in school just for her to notice him. It could just be a crush again. A quick burst of flames that would peter into blackened ashes in a week or two. 

“Queen Anne is a fine-looking girl.”

Gilbert’s eyes widened, his eyes snapping upwards to find Bash watching him, a self-satisfied smirk to his face. He felt himself heat, hoping his skin didn’t wear the tell-tale signs of his embarrassment.

“What?” Bash laughed. “You head off for a weekend and come back mooning and you expect me to _not_ know who you’re talking about?”

“Bash,” he groaned.

“I’m sure the heat of being all cooped up in that car together didn’t help matters.”

“Bash!”

“Got your gears going, huh?” Bash teased, winking at Gilbert as he pointedly covered Delphine’s ears.

“ _Jeez,”_ Gilbert groaned, covering his embarrassment with his hands. “I’m not some–” he shot a look at Delphine, ensuring her ears were still covered before dropping his voice – “ _horny_ kid, you know.”

“Are you not?” Bash chuckled. “These walls aren’t so thick as you might think they are.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’ve heard it all,” Bash persisted, his face alight with mirth.

“Please stop talking.” Gilbert’s voice withered as Bash chuckled lowly.

“Oh, I’m _kidding,_ Blythe,” he laughed. “You’re human. It’s normal to have feelings you don’t always understand.” His face became serious, his hand rubbing at his jaw as he spoke. “Look, kid.”

Gilbert pulled his hands from where they rested against his flushed neck, startled by the sudden sincerity in Bash’s voice.

“Attraction, it’s important. But love is what truly matters. And love is bigger than those…” His eyes fell pointedly, before finding Gilbert’s face once more. Gilbert felt himself cringe. “ _Feelings._ Do you understand?”

“Thank you, Yoda,” Gilbert joked, forcing laughter into his voice to mask his mortification. “That was really helpful.”

Bash laughed, his voice altering to impersonate the grand master. “A pleasure, it is.”

“And people think I’m the nerdy one.” Gilbert stood to leave, clapping his hands together lightly and looking from Delphine to Bash. “Well, this has been sufficiently humiliating. I’m going to go”

“Sure, kid.”

He walked to the doorway and into the hall, padding quietly up the stairs as he heard niece's voice travel from downstairs.

“Daddy, do you have a crush on Mummy?”

Bash chuckled. “Daddy will always have a crush on Mummy,” came his answer.

Gilbert pushed the door closed behind him when he reached the sanctuary of his room, falling back against it. He inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes. Bash had been right. It was all-consuming, his thoughts of Anne. This past week had told him that. But it wasn’t concrete, and the logical part of his brain told him it was too quick to mean anything. Could someone fall that fast? He thought back on the morning after their party, seeing Roy’s name on her phone. The quick spark of jealousy that ignited within him, something deep within him telling him he didn't want her to be with someone else. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, fully aware of the irony of that statement. Anne was unattached. She was free to be with who she wanted and he was not. He had made a choice. He had built a life with Winnie. He fumbled for his phone, pulling it from his pocket and opening the message that had arrived while he had sat downstairs.

_Emily said induction for your programme starts August 25th. Will you be home by then???_

Gilbert’s hand fell to his side, something like panic, the feeling of floundering in water that was out of his depth, filling his chest. His grip tightened around it before he drew his elbow back, hurling the phone across the room. He heard it bounce against his mattress and clatter to the floor, landing with a dull thump. He strode to his bed, falling back against the mattress and covering his face with his arms. His hand found his heart, feeling it beat uncontrollably beneath his palm. He closed his eyes, concentrating on his breath: in for four, hold for seven, let go for nine. In for four, hold for seven, let go for nine.

His eyes opened. He needed to speak to Anne.

He scrambled to his knees, reaching to the other side of his bed to find his phone on the floorboards, unaffected from its fall. Winnie’s message was still on the screen. He tapped out of it, opened a new message and keyed in the contact. He stared at the empty text box. He shook his head. He placed his phone on the bed beside him.

He felt his heartbeat in his chest, his hand moving instinctively, fingers closing around his phone once more.

He lifted it. Hesitated.

He typed three words.

_I miss you._

He shook his head, watched the words disappear with each touch of the backspace. He stared ahead into the greyness of his room, eyes falling to his phone once more. He drummed his fingers against his lips, a huff of a laugh escaping him as he typed out a message and hit send.

_A disappointing size of hammer from Fix-It Felix_

He dropped his phone onto his duvet, flipping onto his stomach and burrowing into his sheets. He closed his eyes. It had been a week, he wasn’t expecting her to reply, but he couldn’t quash the burst of excitement in his chest as he heard his phone vibrate against his bed. He dove to lift it, a wide grin splitting his face when he saw her name on the screen.

_Size of the hammer is irrelevant. It’s all about how you use it_

He snorted a laugh, locking his phone and lying it beside him, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. He drummed his fingers against his lips. He had to reply. He couldn’t leave it there. He reached for his phone once more.

_He seems pretty good with it_

He watched as three dots appeared, his body buzzing with anticipation as they vanished, her reply lighting the screen.

_Lucky you_

He frowned. Was that it?

Another message appeared beneath it.

_Fuck marry kill: Fix-It Felix, Thor, MC Hammer_

Gilbert grinned, wondering if how quickly he responded seemed too eager, the thought too late as he hit the send button.

_Marry Felix. He seems the sort to do all the DIY jobs. Fuck Thor and kill MC Hammer._

Her reply was immediate.

_Kill MC Hammer? What are grannies at weddings going to dance to now?_

_He killed himself really. What does he not want me to touch? ;)_

_Consent is what a healthy sex life is built on_

_Plus I’m a bigger fan of Super Freak anyway_

_Controversial_

_Is it?_

_It is a better song_

_If you say so… :P_

_I also think music peaked with the Shrek soundtrack so you may be right_

_I genuinely don’t know if you’re kidding or not_

_Why would I kid over that?_

Gilbert laughed, typing his reply and hitting send.

_Fuck, marry, kill: Prince Charming, Prince Phillip or that guy from Frozen_

_I sincerely hope you mean fictional Prince Phillip because irl Prince Phillip is not getting it_

_Real_

_Fuck Hans (duh), marry Charming (big himbo energy) and kill Phillip (need I say why?) Give me a challenge next time, goddammit!_

He laughed at her response, glancing upwards to see his copy of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban unread on his bedside cabinet. He grinned.

_Fuck marry kill: Moony, Padfoot or Prongs_

He waited for her to reply, disappointed when a minute had passed and she hadn’t yet responded. He sighed and went to drop his phone to his bed when the lit up with her name. He felt his heart flutter, Gilbert grinning as he swiped to answer.

“Are you trying to kill me?” she asked, her voice honeyed with mirth. “I can’t murder one of the three good marauders.”

“Answer me, Red,” he ordered teasingly, repeating what she had once said to him the first time they had played.

“No, I just…Well, who am I meant to pick?” He listened as she sighed. “I may need a little time to think this through.”

“That’s fine. I have time.”

She laughed. “Okay firstly, I’ve read _way_ too much James and Lily fanfiction in my lifetime to stand in the way of them, you know?”

“Sure.”

“But does that mean I kill him? Because that feels slightly counterproductive.”

“He dies anyway, right?”

“Thanks for the reminder, doc.”

Gilbert laughed, hearing Anne hum on the other end of the phone.

“Sirius seems the type who’d be good in bed,” she mused, Gilbert feeling himself heat up as his mind flashed with images of Anne’s pale thighs, creamy skin flecked with soft marks, red hair spilling onto his pillow. He swallowed a groan, flipping onto his back.

“And Remus,” Anne continued, oblivious to the effect her words had had on him. “Hear me out, but Remus looks like the sort of man who would have eerily soft hands.”

Gilbert felt a gurgle of laughter rise from within him.

“I’m not so sure I’d like that.”

“He’s a werewolf, Red,” he reminded her, telling himself that the brush across his knuckles, feeling his own palm beneath his fingertips, had not meant anything. “He’s scarred all over. I don’t think his hands would be an exception to that.”

“Have I just talked myself into more of a predicament?”

“I think you might have.”

She giggled. Gilbert lay his head against his pillow, revelling in the magic that came with her laughter; how it sounded like the twinkling sound effect that played as fairy dust fell upon children or rags transformed into brilliant blue ball gowns.

“Okay, I’ve made my decision,” she declared.

Gilbert grinned. “Shoot.”

“Marry James because he’s into gingers.”

Gilbert felt himself redden, remembering when he admitted to her something similar. 

“Fuck Sirius and kill Remus.” She groaned, Gilbert seeing her in his mind’s eye, sitting in her room, her hands covering her face. “Oh God, that one was hard.”

“I can’t believe you killed _Lupin_ ,” he chuckled.

“You made me!” she cried.

“I did not.”

“But _imagine_ him handling his wand and tell me he doesn’t seem the type to have creepily soft hands.”

Gilbert chuckled. “I’m not sure how comfortable I am thinking of him handling his wand.”

Anne’s giggle was warm in his ear and he felt his smile grow wider. “You’re filthy.”

“Me?” Gilbert asked incredulously. “You said it!”

“But I didn’t mean it like _that._ I just meant…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gilbert laughed. “I _know_ what you meant.”

He listened as her laughter quietened, their conversation momentarily lulling. He cleared his throat.

“What are you up to?” he heard himself ask.

“Nothing much,” Anne answered. “I had a fitting for my bridesmaids dress today.”

“Oh? And how did it go?”

“Fine,” Anne replied. She paused, her sigh vibrating in his ear. “Only they’re _pink.”_

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“I’m ginger,” Anne answered, tutting as though he should have known that was the issue. “Red headed people _can’t_ wear pink.”

“I don’t know about that,” he laughed. “Wasn’t that the whole premise of Pretty in Pink?”

“Molly Ringwald looked _terrible_ in that dress. Everyone knows it! Pink and red heads just don’t mix. It's a pity really.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you'll look perfect." He paused, feeling the bulb in his throat bob as he gulped. His fingertips skimmed lightly along the back of his neck. "I, uhm…" He ran his palm roughly along his cheek. "I like your hair."

The line went silent, Gilbert’s blood rushing in his ears as he cringed inwardly. He couldn’t have been more obvious if he had tried. He drew in a breath again as he waited for her to speak. To hang up. To do _something._

In for four, hold for seven, out for…

“Thanks.” He felt himself breath again, his heart beating too quickly, demanding more oxygen than his shallow breaths could provide. “Gil.”

His voice was a croak when he spoke. He silently cursed himself. “You’re welcome.”

He heard a shuffle, could hear her move and he realised she was lying in bed, curled beneath her sheets. He wondered if the moon was catching her just so, illuminating strips of her skin as it had when they lay beneath that horrible picture of Jesus in Stephen and Lavender’s bungalow. If she was on her side as she had been, the line of her dipping at her waist, rounding at her hips. He closed his eyes, rolling onto his side and picturing her there with him, opposite him on the other side of his bed.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner,” she breathed. “Work has been… _hectic._ ”

“That’s okay,” he replied. “I’m glad it was just work.”

He heard himself chuckle, the sound low, quiet. “I thought you must have been mad at me.”

“Why would I have been mad?”

“I…”

He couldn’t tell her why because maybe, more likely than not, he had read too much into it. Winnie’s friends kissed all the time, dotting cheeks with double kisses each time they met, or when they were about to part ways again, and they thought nothing of that. It never meant anything. I was just habitual. Something they did.

“I don’t know,” he finished, forcing himself to laugh gently. “Aren’t we usually arguing over something?”

He could hear the smile in her voice when she spoke. “Usually... Do you want to start?”

“I can’t think of anything,” he whispered.

“Me neither.”

The sound of her breathing consumed him, his hand sliding across the sheets to her side of the bed, feeling a phantom-like heat lap over him each time she exhaled.

“I was thinking,” she said eventually. He drew his hand back, tucking it beneath his cheek.

“Sounds dangerous.”

She laughed. “ _Maybe,_ if you’d be willing, we could start looking again? You don’t have to, obviously…”

“I want to.”

“…if you’re bored with it now. I know I ask a lot of you and…”

“Anne.” 

She fell silent at the sound of her name. 

“I want to.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Gilbert’s hand rubbed against his cheek, feeling it rough with stubble beneath his palm. He wondered how to word his question, wanting to delve into her relationship with Roy without making it obvious. He coughed awkwardly, clearing his throat.

“Are you still speaking to Roy?”

“He’s messaged a little since we came home,” she informed him. 

Gilbert felt his heart shrink away. While he had been dealt an excruciating wait, Roy had gained her attention. He knew it was going to be the case. That didn’t soften the blow.

“But I don’t want to stop looking.”

Neither, Gilbert realised, did he. Because without this ruse, without the quest and the letter, what excuse would he have to see her anymore? He would only be with her when they were with their friends, losing her to Diana and Ruby. He didn’t want that.

“Okay,” he said resolutely, putting her on speakerphone dragging his laptop from his bag and onto his knee. “Who’s next?”

There was a millisecond of time suspended in uncertainty. Gilbert was unsure if she would answer.

“The other Paul,” she replied feebly after a pause.

He opened his laptop, a google docs account opening before him. He frowned, reading the titles of the documents displayed, all of them unfamiliar, until he spotted Anne’s name in the top corner, still logged in from when she had borrowed his laptop in the car. He let his eyes scan across the titles once, the documents messy, unorganised, many untitled between articles she had written for her college newspaper and job applications. And at the top sat the last document she had edited, Gilbert’s curiosity piqued at the title. He wondered if it was a journal she was keeping; what she had written inside it. The mouse moved, hovering above it for a moment before he stopped himself, opening a new tab and typing Paul’s name into the search bar.

“I wonder what he’s up to,” Anne rambled as results filled Gilbert’s screen. “I never really knew him much in school, but I remember he was a little rude. You all were though so I don’t…”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Gilbert breathed. 

Anne fell silent on the other end of the line.

“What?” she asked. “What is it?”

“It’s Paul, Red.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s dead.”

**********

There were moments in life when Anne felt the world should stop. When the sun in the sky shouldn't rise with the morning and the moon shouldn’t caress the earth with her sultry kiss. When laughter should quieten and music should cease and everything should lull into a dull grey. Bleak and bitter and hopeless. 

Anne had experienced many of these moments in her lifetime, wishing the earth would stop spinning on her axis when yet another couple overlooked her in favour of a pretty little girl with soft curls. When she found herself in another bare bedroom in the home of a foster carer, the space devoid of any true love for her. A much younger Anne would empty her bag of the little treasures, the few worldly possessions that she owned, before arranging them on a plain nightstand, ready to pack up again in a month when she was forced to move on. 

And she had wished the world would end the day Matthew left her, Anne crying bitterly at how unjust it was that he should be taken from her. From her who had so little. Her heart had become a black hole for months after, with no joy being able to reside there anymore. She still felt like that sometimes. 

And today, as her feet echoed off the cobblestones of the pavement that led to the cemetery in Charlottetown, Anne found herself wishing once more that the world would quieten. That joy would lower her voice and allow silence to settle, leaving Anne to gather her thoughts as she walked beside Gilbert, a bunch of bright blooms clutched in her grasp, towards the grave of a boy she barely knew, but who was taken from the earth too soon.

It was a hot day. The type of day that saw seagulls pester people who made merry on park benches, squawking for crumbs of crumbling ice cream cones or chips dropped from newspaper bags. The shorelines were covered in crowds hidden beneath parasols coloured in bright primary stripes, but as Anne and Gilbert approached the entrance to the churchyard, Anne thought it reverent that the sun had cast them in a shadow, the long alleyway lined with a tumbling stone wall cool, the space it protected rendered dark. Anne had always thought that graveyards had a certain chill to them, regardless of when she visited them. They possessed a type of eeriness that came with eternal sleep, and she found this one no different as she lifted the stiffened latch and pushed open the rusted gate. It squealed as it swung against its post and Anne stepped inside, a tremble up her spine giving rise to goosebumps rippling along her flesh.

She hated places like this: rows upon rows of moss-covered headstones made of black marble and slate greys, humble wooden crosses dug into the earth to mark the resting place of someone who had shared, only briefly, a part of their vast planet. It was discourteous, in some way, that that’s all people became. People who had passions and families and fullness to their lives, becoming nothing more than a square patch of grass and a headstone. Their legacy became nothing more than folklore, tales passed from family member to family member until finally, they were forgotten. Just a name etched on stone. Anne had vowed a long time ago that Matthew would not become that, but each time she attempted to speak of him, she felt the words die inside of her. Not just because it was painful, Anne’s grief still stinging like a fresh wound, but because of what she saw on people’s faces when she spoke of him. Pity. The pouted lips and furrowed brows of pity that Anne saw all too often. It was an expression that made her stomach curl and her heart ache and her blood course with anger because she wasn’t broken. She was struggling, but she was strong and she didn’t need to be pitied. Not by people who fixed their faces with sympathetic gazes and made comforting clucking sounds with their tongues but didn’t understand. Never knowing what it felt like to lose something that you couldn’t get back.

Anne stared down at the shadows that she and Gilbert cast along the path, seeing his frame narrow as he tensed his shoulders, and she thought on how stoic he had been during the car journey, his mouth set in a way that made Anne feel he was just as anxious about this trip as she was. His skin was almost greyed as he had parked the car and pulled the keys from the ignition. He’d turned to her and his eyes dropped to the blooms she held on her lap. Anne could see the bulb in his throat move as he swallowed, the movements of his fingers as they drummed against his knees agitated before he sighed and his gaze met hers, asking, “Are you ready?”

She felt foolish now for not realising why he had been on edge, quiet and nervous. He was like her, the only person who had lost like she had. She could recall his father, only briefly, at the school gates on the days that he had soccer practice. He wasn’t unlike Gilbert, she recalled: tall and handsome, even as he ailed. He had had the same strong jaw and pointed chin, but was fairer. Gilbert’s dark curls were something that Anne thought he must have inherited from his mother. Rumours had been rife around their school when he had finally passed, and Anne, as stubborn as she was, couldn’t bring herself to offer him sympathies when he had returned to school a fortnight later. He looked lost, frightened, but what could she have offered him to soothe that away? She had decided to say nothing instead, not yet understanding the darkness of grief. How a friendly face and a kind word could sometimes be more healing than any disingenuous coo.

“It’s times like now I think I should probably visit my dad more often,” he said, his voice echoing in the unnerving silence.

His smile was tight when Anne glanced up at him, his eyes fixed forward. He dropped his gaze to her.

“But graveyards give me the creeps.”

Anne nodded. “Me too.”

The place Paul was laid to rest hadn’t been difficult to find. Anne had scanned headstones dating back to the nineteenth century as they walked the length of the narrow path, tracks of grey stone splintering from it like a tree, leading to plots where lost loved ones laid. The headstones became brighter, less worn with age, names etched still visible as they neared the back. They steered from the path, stepping onto the grass, and felt it soft beneath their feet. Crows cried overhead as Gilbert listed surnames they passed.

“Montgomery. Pritchard. Leard. Langdon.”

They stopped.

It was a humble grave, the grass sparse, seed still visible in the soil that topped it, a curved piece of stone marking it as Paul’s.

“Paul Langdon,” Anne read. “1993 to 2020.”

Anne’s voice faltered as she read, a stinging lump swelling within her throat. She hardly knew him, really, but he had been a steady figure in her life for so many years: a ruddy faced brute who had swaggered behind Billy and laughed loudly when he spoke. And now he was nothing but a name and a date on a piece of stone.

Anne closed her eyes, feeling them smart with tears as a breeze blew, toying at the ends of her hair. She remembered callously complaining about him to her friends, finding him dull, stupid. But she had never given him a chance. And she could have been wrong. 

She had been wrong about Gilbert. 

Guilt swelled within her like a brewing storm. Guilt and suffocating remorse. Gilbert’s voice brought her back to the present, away from a classroom and a loud guffawing voice and Anne’s rolling eyes, and back to a shadowed church yard where Gilbert was by her side as they paid their respects to an old classmate.

“It’s surreal,” he said. “Being here.”

Anne’s voice hitched as she attempted to suppress a swell of regret.

“How did we not know?” she asked. “I’ve lived forty-five minutes away and I didn’t even hear.”

Gilbert nudged lightly into her shoulder. “None of us did, Red. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“But it’s not _right,_ Gilbert,” she responded, unexpected grief edging her voice like a knife. “He’s _dead_. He’s dead and none of us went to his funeral. I never even took the time to know him…”

A sob escaped her, loud and unexpected, and she bit down hard on her lip in an attempt to quell the aching feeling in her chest. A single rogue tear rolled down the curve of her cheek.

Her voice was listless when she spoke. “Does that make me a terrible person?”

Gilbert’s eyes snapped to her, seeing her fist clenched tight around the purple hyacinths she had bought on their journey in. Purple hyacinths, she had told him, were what she had to bring but he didn’t ask her why. 

He wondered how she could think herself bad. It was her who had decided they would visit him, and despite Gilbert not having visited a cemetery in years, his father’s grave a painful place for him to be, he knew he would be alright with Anne by his side. She had picked flowers and brought them here, and now she stood by him, her face etched with genuine regret. How could any of that make her bad? She was the most sensitive soul he had met in his life. She cared deeply, even though the Paul he had a fleeting friendship with back in high school had not always afforded her the kindness she was showing his memory.

“No, Anne,” he insisted. “You’re here now, aren’t you? You are a _good_ person.”

Her lips pressed together into a wobbling line, and he knew by the dip at the base of her throat, how the muscle in her neck constricted, that she didn’t believe him. 

Her body brimmed with remorse and Gilbert felt the need to comfort her, although he didn’t know how. He knew words weren’t always a comfort, as people often said what they thought you wanted to hear, so instead he reached his arm out and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling her into his side and hearing her inhale sharply, a gurgle of emotion wracking through her chest. He turned his head towards her, feeling her hair brushing against his mouth as he whispered to her, not sure if she could even hear him.

“You are good, Anne."

His voice was thick as he spoke, his throat feeling as though it was closing in. He closed his eyes, inhaling her as her body leant into him. Anne’s head fell against his shoulder. He let his head rest against hers, his thumb rubbing soft circles against the velvet-like skin of her shoulder.

To an unknowing eye, the gazes of the widowers who sat on stone benches and watched those who wandered around them, they would have looked like any couple who were young and in love. To an unknowing eye, they would have seen Gilbert’s fingers flex around Anne’s arm and think he had done this countless times before. To an unknowing eye, they would have seen Anne’s head turn into his chest and think that Gilbert was someone who was always there to pick her up when she stumbled. 

But an unknowing eye didn’t know the truth, and they couldn’t see the flicker of worry on Gilbert’s face, wondering if he had overstepped a boundary he wasn’t sure they had set. They were oblivious to the hammering of Anne’s heart, wondering why she, who was always so strong and hid her pain from those around her, let herself be vulnerable with him, something about him enveloping her in the warmth that came with a comfort blanket, his kiss still lingering on the crown of her head.

She wiped her eyes and drew away, Gilbert reluctantly letting her free. Anne stepped forward onto the patch of grass until she was before the stone. The gulls above them hushed as she stooped, laying the hyacinths she carried onto the grass. A wind blew around her when she stood again. Anne closed her eyes against it.

“I’m sorry, Paul,” she whispered, the wind carrying her voice with it. “I’m sorry I didn’t check up on you.”

Her hand fell to the stone, Anne holding it there for a moment and hoping he had heard her message, before she stepped away, turning back to Gilbert. His face was solemn and his hands dug into his pockets. As he raised his eyes to her, Anne spotted a young woman, a few steps from them, her hand resting against a roundness in her stomach.

“I’m sorry,” she called to them. She shuffled closer. “I didn’t want to disturb you, but it’s not too often he gets visitors.”

She smiled towards the grave, Anne and Gilbert’s eyes falling back to the grass.

“Were you friends of Paul’s?” she asked, an eagerness to her expression as she spoke.

Anne studied the woman, her face round with a small mouth like a strawberry that widened to show gapped teeth. She was curved, waddling with the weight of pregnancy, her hair thin and eyes tired as she blinked back at them.

“We were friends,” Anne heard Gilbert explain. “Back in school.”

Her face flickered with understanding, features brightening as she observed two people from Paul’s past that she hadn’t been acquainted with.

“Ah,” she hummed. “I don’t see too many of Paul’s friends. It’s lovely to meet you.”

Anne glanced towards Gilbert as she pottered closer, the furrow in his brow informing Anne he was feeling the exact way she was. Weighed down with guilt. They watched as the woman wandered around the grave, brushing gravel from the base of the headstone before laying a wreath of fresh flowers against it.

“Are these from you?” she asked them, glancing over her shoulder as she pointed towards the purple blooms Anne had laid.

They couldn’t bring themselves to speak, nodding instead, the woman stepping back and standing by them, her hands coming to rest upon her stomach.

“I try to visit every day,” she said, shooting a small smile towards Anne. Anne wondered if she had many people to speak to or if she was only talking to fill the awkwardness that came with conversing with strangers. Her eyes fell back to the grave. “To visit my Paul.”

Her smile faltered and Anne’s hand reached out instinctively to press against her arm. The woman looked down upon it, a watery smile on her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s been a few months but it still feels as though it was yesterday.”

She brushed at her eyes with the sleeves of her cardigan, sniffing loudly. “He would hate that I’m crying, you know. He always told me to not cry for him. He only wanted me to be happy. But it’s hard to be happy without him.”

The woman laughed hollowly, her thumb brushing at a tear as Anne’s thumb rubbed against her arm. “I feel like I’m failing him somehow.”

“He won’t think that,” Anne answered. A wedding ring glinted on the woman’s finger, Anne piecing together their relationship in her mind. “Were you married long?” she asked, watching as the stranger shook her head.

“Only a few months,” she replied. She glanced skyward, a softness to her face as she became lost in a memory. “Paul was the sort of person who lived life to the full. And when he heard his cancer was killing him, he didn’t want to wait. And neither did I.”

She dropped her eyes back to his name, her throat thickening with unshed tears. “He said to me, “ _Jenny, what are we waiting for? If you love someone, shouldn’t you be with them?”_ And I loved him more than anyone.”

Gilbert sucked at his cheek, staring at the gold lettering before him. His heart felt heavy, leaden with the sudden knowledge that Paul Langdon wasn’t someone he knew. Fourteen years of schooling together, of them finding themselves thrust amongst the same gaggle of misfits, clutching together and heeding to Billy Andrews’ every order because they thought they had nobody else. But Paul was bright, and wise. He lived a life he enjoyed and Gilbert never knew. Paul’s words echoed around his mind. _If you love someone, shouldn’t you be with them?_ Swirling around and around until he could barely think of anything else, his heart racing and panic clawing beneath the surface of his skin as his eyes found Anne. He felt his breath go short, his tongue darting out to wet dried lips allowing himself to succumb to the feeling only she could manage to bring to him. The same feeling he had felt when she reached out her arms and spun, rain running along her in rivulets. A sobering feeling that had his nerves tingling and his heart expanding within him. The feeling of returning to his body. The feeling of coming alive.

“But I’ll always have a part of him with me,” Jenny said, the soft huskiness to her voice drawing Gilbert from his raging thoughts. He saw her hand rub gently along her stomach. “And it’s not just because of this one.” A sad smile played upon her lips; her eyes suddenly glassy. “I’ll carry a little part of him in my heart forever. And I consider myself so lucky to have him there.”

Gilbert’s eyes fell to Anne, seeing her stare up at him, bright blue eyes widening, turning from him as he met her gaze. He thought he saw her skin pinken with a blush, and wondered if he was the reason why her blood had migrated to the surface of her skin, or if it had been an after effect of her tears. Her name rotated like a carousel in his mind. Anne who had hated him not a month back. Anne who had pierced him with glacial glares but now sat on the passenger side of his father’s car and who spoke quickly but with conviction, Gilbert hanging off her every word. Anne whose gazes sometimes lingered longer than he felt they should, making Gilbert wonder if her heart had changed, if she harboured any tenderness towards him, although he never let himself dwell upon the thought for too long. 

She was still contacting Roy. If her feelings for Gilbert altered, she viewed him as a friend, even though he had felt, for just a moment, that she would have stayed if he asked her too, before she left with Roy. And it was strange how, in a month, he could find himself filled with her, knowing what she liked and didn’t. How she drank her tea or the way she laughed when a joke became crude. The wrinkle to her nose and the seven freckles on her face that were darker than the rest. These were all parts of her he would carry, long after the summer had ended and he was back in Toronto. He felt the ground shift below him, realising now that those parts of her would affect him, even then, when this quest was nothing but a memory. He would carry her in his heart. He frowned. _Love_ , Bash had said. But Gilbert wasn’t sure he had ever been in it. How was he supposed to know what it felt like when he hadn’t experienced it before? What he had with Winnie was comfortable and easy. But for Anne, he was a Molotov cocktail, the glass shattering and petrol bursting into flames. He burned with Anne. 

The revelation struck him like a slap and he found himself fixing his eyes skyward, watching the crows as they dipped and reeled above him. He drew in a sharp breath, releasing it between pursed lips as he urged his heart to slow. And he thanked Paul for his friendship, despite Gilbert not always appreciating it. He thanked him for looking out for him, even now, his words echoing in Gilbert's mind like the ringing of an alarm clock set to wake him up. 

Anne hugged Jenny goodbye as they took their leave, walking the path once more, retracing their steps along the cobbled street to find Gilbert’s car parked at the bottom of the lane.

“ _I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart,”_ Anne quoted as Gilbert unlocked the door.

His gaze found her over the roof of the car, her face tilted back towards the sun, golden beams glowing against her skin. He felt his breath catch.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s poetry,” Anne replied, her eyes landing upon him, a depth to the twinkling pools of blue that he wasn’t sure he had seen before. “E.E. Cummings. _I carry your heart; I carry it in my heart.”_

He nodded, the words thrumming in his ears and echoing in his soul.

“Isn’t it funny that it feels like you’ve lost a little of yourself when someone passes?” she mused, her brow furrowed contemplatively, a pensive smile playing on pink lips. “But we don’t really. You give a little of yourself away but you get some of them in return, until you’re just a patchwork quilt of everyone you’ve ever loved.”

A watery smile on her lips, her gaze dipping before rising slowly to meet his. Gilbert watched her dumbfounded from the other end of the car.

“So, we don’t really lose anyone after all,” she said. “We just carry them with us.”

She disappeared from view and Gilbert heard the car door slam shut as he stared at the spot where she had stood.

**********

The sky burned with streaks of red, while soft lilacs and deep plum splashed against it like a piece of abstract artwork as the old red car slowed before Green Gables. 

Anne had been quiet and pensive during their journey home. Her hand hesitated as she reached for the handle; she was unsure why she was reluctant to leave. There was a heaviness in her heart tonight, a dark ache that she felt only Gilbert’s presence could soothe after their experience in the graveyard earlier that day. She had reflected upon it during their journey home, seeing Paul’s wife and hearing his words, and she felt herself heat with a shamefaced flush, scolding herself for her brief moment of selfishness. How she had allowed herself to think, just for a moment, how unjust it was that she would never know if he had written her letter. But she knew now that he hadn’t. He had lived fully, Jenny telling them of how he had filled his time doing things he had loved while he was still fit to. He had loved without reservation, devoting his final few months on earth to being a dedicated husband, leaving his wife just as she had discovered they were to welcome a child to their family. If he had written Anne’s letter, he wouldn’t have waited for her to find him after hearing no response. If he had wanted Anne, he would have gone to her and declared himself: _If you love someone, shouldn’t you be with them?_

Anne cast a glance over her shoulder towards Gilbert, his eyes resting upon her. There was a gentleness to them, the golden flecks glinting like treasure in the evening light, an amber glow softening his cheek bone. 

She swallowed back, her heart hastening as he eyed her expectantly, the moment suspended as they both waited for the other to speak; unwilling to burst the protective bubble that the sanctuary of the car surrounded them in. 

Anne's voice shattered the fragile silence, her eyes flickering between his as she asked, “Would you like to come in?”

He hadn’t been expecting the question. She could see it in the way he drew back slightly, his eyes widening and breath catching in the semblance of a softened gasp. She expected him to say no, surprised as his brow relaxed and the guardedness in his gaze diminished. He nodded, just once, and Anne felt her chest swell as she turned from him, climbing from the car, and leading him to the door of the house, her bicycle propped beneath the window.

The house was warm and lively when they entered, a tawny glow illuminating the kitchen and glowing into the hall as Anne heard the distinctive laugh of Mrs Lynde bellow down the hall, her booming voice cackling “ _Mr Grey will see you now,”_ to whoops of the excitable laughter as voices echoed around the room. There was a platter of finger-food on the table and a tray of glasses arranged around jugs of margarita on the table, the rims frosted in sugar. Anne groaned, forgetting what night it was. She shot Gilbert an embarrassed smile.

“I forgot it’s book club night,” she admitted. “The ladies are all over.”

Gilbert shook his head. “That’s fine.” He thrust his thumb over his shoulder. “I can go or…”

“We could go for a walk,” Anne answered. Her shrug was uncertain, Anne finding her throat dry as she swallowed back. “I’m not sure I want to be alone tonight.”

Gilbert’s hand brushed lightly against his mouth, his head bobbing in a small nod. His hand fell to his side. “I could do with some air.”

They walked slowly through the centre of town, Anne dressed in an oversized denim jacket that he knew was his, lent to her the night she had met Billy. He wondered if she remembered, not that he would ever ask for it back. They passed Diana’s bungalow, a lamp lit in the front room, and past the Lyndes’ old farmhouse, but Gilbert knew where Anne was leading him as the park came into view. She had been melancholic on the drive home, her brow flickering with something painful. As though she had just experienced the same sharp twinge he felt twisting inside him like a blade whenever he thought of his father. Of what it was to lose him. He knew where she retreated to when her head was filled with her thoughts. And so, Gilbert was unsurprised as she rounded the park and waded through the long grass and thickets of trees that led to the old farmhouse and her thinking spot.

It looked different in this light, in the warm amber wash of evening, the stone walls almost appearing golden under the glow of the setting sun, the windows glinting like shards of fool’s gold in the tumbledown façade of the building. He watched as she paced into the centre of the grass and sat there, leaning back on her palms, and tilting her face towards the sun, the fiery sky caressing her in a rose-tinted glow. He heard his feet crunch against the dried grass as he paced to her, his knees drawn to his chest, elbows resting on top of them as he settled beside her.

She took a dandelion between pinched fingers, the stem snapping as she lifted it to her lips and blew, feather-like heads dancing above them and floating away with the wind. She watched as they went, spinning in the summer breeze, swept towards the sea that crashed against a rock face not far from them. Gilbert closed his eyes and imagined the sea spray splashing back against the waves.

“It really is so peaceful here,” he said. His gaze found Anne, her hair aglow in the warm evening light, spilling down her back like rivulets of fire, her proud little nose upturned as she stared above her. “It’s beautiful.”

There was something in the softness of his voice that drew her attention to him and she found his gaze on her, a golden glow to his eyes that made her blush. She snapped her eyes from him, fixing them forward once more as her heart pounded beneath her breast. She swallowed back, her elbows going weak as she fell back into the long grass.

She watched a bumblebee flit drunkenly from a wild poppy head to a buttercup, its wings straining beneath the weight of its body. She watched as it moved, her thoughts travelling backwards, reflecting on what they had done that day. She had lain flowers on the grave of someone her age. Someone young, just beginning a life with the person they loved, living life to the fullest as Death tightened its hold on him. He had lived, despite knowing his days were numbered. He lived while he could. 

Anne had once been a little girl with big dreams. She had dreamt of adventures on ships or venturing through leafy jungles. She had dreamt of horse-back riding and exploring lands she had never visited before. She had dreamt of romance and laughter and a life of happiness. And then her dreaming had stopped. And all she dreamt was that the day would end and she could close her eyes on the storm that swirled inside of her. She had stopped living a long time ago, and yet, she was still here. She sighed, folding her hands against the flat of her stomach as she traced patterns in the streaks of colour that decorated the sky.

“Do you ever wonder what it’s all about?”

Her question was whispered, her brow creased as Gilbert’s eyes fell to her. 

He sighed, lying back into the grass beside her, feeling it brush against his neck and his bare arms. His hand flattened against his chest, feeling it empty of air. Fill again.

“Ah, the age-old question. What are we all here for?”

Gilbert thought he heard her laugh, but the sound was so muted he couldn’t be sure. “All of these people on the planet,” she whispered. “And not one of us knows what it’s all about.”

A frown furrowed Gilbert’s features. “I think that’s the whole point,” he said. “It means something different for everyone.”

He dragged his eyes from her, fixing them on the house before him before lifting them to the sky. It wasn’t too long ago she had told him of how she dreamed of living here. Gilbert still saw the green house leant against the wall, the wisteria climbing the wall as children with wild curls coloured flame red scampered around the grass in his mind's eye.

“No two of us are the same,” he continued. “We all have our own paths and we have to walk them.”

Anne nodded, letting his sentiment settle on her. She heard his head brush against the grass and could feel his gaze heat her skin.

“So really,” he said, his voice as warming as the evening breeze. “You just have to figure out your path.”

It was an innocent enough statement, but Anne wasn’t sure she had a solution for it. She hadn’t thought of what her purpose was before. Or she had, back when she was lighter and life stretched before her like an endless road trip, back when she envisioned that each pitstop would bring something wonderful. 

But now what she wanted, more than anything, was to feel like herself again. To move forward, to rediscover her laughter. Her voice. To see injustices in the world and right them like she used to. To bring hope to the hopeless. That was why she had gone into journalism in the first place.

A huff of air escaped her.

“I want to tell truths,” she said. “Sound journalism should bring a voice to the voiceless, don’t you think?”

There was a heat that his eyes brought, burning along her skin, and she knew his gaze was lingering on her. 

She felt herself bask beneath it.

“I do.”

“And what of you?” she asked, her head turning to him, seeing him watch her, the sun reflected back at her in his irises. “What is your purpose, Gilbert Blythe?”

A hushed laugh escaped him, his brow curving as he turned back to the sketchbook sky. “Is it cliché to say I just want to help people?”

Anne shook her head. “Not at all.”

“I’d like to give people a second chance at life,” he admitted.

Anne sucked at her cheek, feeling a certain truth to his words. He hadn’t healed her, she hadn’t been dying, but in a way she felt like he was the water that she supped from, her wilted petals coming back to life with him. She felt her fingers brush against her ring finger, remembering the last time they had spoken so candidly, when Anne wore a ring intended for someone else. Speaking to him felt different. She should have been guarded, but with each part of her she shared, she felt she wasn’t afraid to let him see the cracks in her porcelain. She wondered if he knew how open she was with him, unable to share her thoughts as freely with Diana or Ruby. She felt her worries bury within her when she spoke with Marilla too, afraid she would burden her further. She wondered if he understood how much these little talks meant to her.

“Isn’t it funny how life gets in the way of living?” she mused. “We all get so caught up with money and work and where we’re going that we forget sometimes to just stop and _be.”_

The grass rustled, around them, swallows sweeping low above them, black silhouettes against blazing orange. Gilbert stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. He ruminated on her words, closing his eyes and concentrating on the feel of his heart beneath his chest. A life force inside him that he tried to ignore. His days were mindless; Gilbert was rarely an active participant in his own decisions. He let the tide carry him, resigning himself to the idea that wherever he washed ashore was where he was meant to be. He didn’t have a role in his own life. He was a side-character in his own story. He wished to change that.

“You know,” Anne continued, a wistful smile to her face. “I used to make up all these stories when I was a kid. All these huge adventures I’d go on and it’s been twenty-five years and I haven’t even been on an aeroplane.”

Gilbert pushed himself onto his elbows, fixing her with a wide-eyed stare.

“You’ve never _flown?”_

Anne bit her lip, swallowing a hollow laugh back into the depths of her despair. She shook her head. “Never ever.”

He fell back against the soft earth, feeling the grass flatten beneath him.

“It’s _amazing,_ Red.” A soft smile played upon Anne’s lips as she listened to him speak, his face animated, hands moving as he spoke. “When you’re up there and the whole world is this tiny little dot below you and it makes you feel… You just feel so _small_ , and everything that’s troubling you doesn’t feel so big anymore.”

“Perspective,” Anne murmured.

His shoulders fell with a sharp breath. “Yes. Perspective.”

“Maybe I should change my purpose,” Anne pondered, a pursed pout to her lips. “I think I’d like some adventures.”

She turned onto her side unexpectedly, readjusting herself so she was facing him. “And what about you?” she pressed. “Want to change anything about your original answer? What is something that you _really_ want, just for yourself?”

He knew his eyes were lingering, sketching the silhouette of her. The sharp jut of her shoulder. The soft dip to her waist. The swell of her hip and slope of her thighs. His eyes snapped back to hers, her face half cast in shadow in the golden light, lips pale and parted.

“I suppose,” he began. “When all is said and done, I just want to look back upon my life and know that I was happy.” His throat unexpectedly swelled with a lump, raw and stinging. His breathing became laboured around it.

“The great balancing act of life,” Anne answered.

Her brows curved, Gilbert imagining her eyes appeared glassier, shining with tears. 

“Always hoping the highs will outweigh the lows.” 

A sudden huff of air caressed Anne’s cheek as Gilbert sighed. “Sometimes I worry I won’t be happy.”

There was a darkness to him, a sullenness that Anne only saw in moments like this, when they lay in the dark and he told her his truths. The things that weighed heavy upon his soul. She wondered why he resigned himself to a life that brought little joy before realising she couldn’t question him. She had done the same thing.

“Me too,” she said. 

A flash of surprise illuminated his eyes at her admission. She shuffled onto her knees, tucking her hair behind her ears as she stared down at him. Gilbert watched her with curiosity, seeing the sun kiss her cheekbone as though she had just been touched by the hand of Midas.

“When was a moment,” she asked. “When you were the happiest you have ever been?”

He laughed, his eyes finding the purpled clouds once more, spreading out in splashes of pastel tones and bright reds and plums, reminding Gilbert of an image he had seen once: streaks of soft blue and warm red fanning outwards into the shape of butterfly wings. A planetary nebula: a space butterfly. That’s what the sky appeared to him as tonight. Gilbert wasn’t the type of man who believed in God. He wasn’t invested and thought you got what you paid for, which was probably why bad luck always darkened his door. But on nights like tonight, when the sky was splashed in colour, he felt like there had to be someone in the clouds who painted the world in splendour. He smiled, thinking of his father and his unwavering faith in a higher power, up to his dying breath. Gilbert wished he was up there now, hidden among the pinks and purples, soft streaks of blue, that made up the setting sky.

“This is really stupid,” he said.

Anne shrugged. “I’m not here to judge.”

He pushed himself upwards, criss-crossing his legs as he settled beside her. He ran his hand through his hair, glancing upwards once more as a sentimental smile played upon his lips.

“So, my dad always made a huge fuss on my birthday. He got these really big gifts and always bought these cakes that I loved: a chocolate fudge one. And it would have been sitting on the table when I came downstairs. It was my ninth birthday and Bash had just come to live with us, and I came downstairs and there was a telescope in the kitchen and it was,” he laughed, “the _most_ excited I have ever been. But there was no cake.”

“No,” Anne gasped, her smile bright as she hung on each of his words.

“Yeah, I know!” He grinned. “The store had run out and he couldn’t get one in time, so he decided we’d bake one instead.”

Anne imagined little Gilbert, his hair lighter, slightly knock-kneed, not having matured into his body yet, a gap-toothed grin to his face as he tossed flour into a bowl.

“My dad was like me,” he continued. “Not the most proficient in the kitchen, and we started making this cake together, the three of us, and it was _so_ disgusting. None of us had a clue what we were doing, but we just laughed the whole time. And when it came out of the oven it was completely burnt. We were all so stupidly proud we ate it anyway and I remember thinking that was the happiest birthday I ever had.”

Anne raised an eyebrow. “A burnt cake is the happiest birthday you ever had?” Her mouth pulled into a _yikes_ expression and Gilbert rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

“Well, yeah.” The smile died on his lips. 

Anne wondered what she had missed that had caused the change in him. 

He shrugged, twisting blades of grass between his fingers. “My mom died on my birthday so it’s always a little sad. I only really celebrated it for my dad. I don’t really celebrate it at all now.”

Guilt crashed upon Anne like rough waters on the sea, stammering an apology for the unintentional hurt she had caused him. “Oh, Gilbert,” she stumbled. “I’m so sorry. That was insensitive and…”

“Not at all,” he reassured her with a shrug. “You weren’t to know.”

His mouth twisted into a teasing smile but Anne knew it was an act to mask the hurt that stormed beneath the surface. It was a move she had made innumerable times before.

“And birthdays are commercialised trivial nonsense anyway, right?”

Anne nodded in mock earnestness. “Of course.”

His chuckle was low, honeyed as Anne shifted on the grass, mimicking Gilbert’s position as she criss-crossed her legs. 

“And what about you?” he asked. “The happiest you have ever been?”

She sighed, her gaze falling to her fingernails. She picked absently at the dandelion heads, floaties drifting around them like messages from the angels.

“When I was brought home to Green Gables,” she replied. “It’s funny, when you’re someone that people don’t want and, suddenly, there’s someone who does.”

Gilbert frowned, thinking on what her life must have been like before Avonlea. He’d never asked her before and they’d never been close enough for her to share it, but even now as he tried, he couldn’t imagine people not wanting Anne. She was the sort of person who felt like a hug, or an unexpected day of sunshine after months of rain. She was joy and hope and happiness embodied. But the more he learnt about her, the more he realised she was none of those things to herself. She was someone who gave herself away, who neglected herself for the benefit of others. He had the sudden urge to hold her. To tell her she was worth all the good that the world could offer her.

“I remember Matthew and Marilla visiting a few times and, one day, they called again, just a few hours later, and we all knew they were going to pick one of us. There’s a certain age where you aren’t mouldable anymore and I knew they wouldn’t pick me. I was too old,” Anne remembered. Her eyes fell to her hands, something inside her cracking. A reservoir ready to break free from the wall that supported it. “Too strange. But when they arrived, Matthew found _me_ , and he asked what I was reading. I remember thinking he had the kindest eyes I had ever seen.”

Her sob was loud, sudden, Gilbert blindsided by the sudden moment of vulnerability. 

Her hand clamped across her mouth, her eyes squeezed closed as she mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

“Anne,” he whispered. His movements were instinctual, shuffling across the earth until he was directly before her, his hands finding her shoulders, thumbs tracing comforting circles against her skin. He ducked his head, catching her eyes. “Don’t apologise for this.”

“It’s just,” she choked, her voice thickened with tears. She wiped at her cheeks, swiping tears from the tracks they were tracing on her skin. “He was the first person who showed me true kindness."

She struggled to suppress a sob, her lips pressed together to quell it, keep it inside her. Gilbert could feel the ferocity of her grief in how she quivered beneath his hands. 

"And I miss him so much.” Her breath hitched sharply. “Every single day.”

His hug was warm, his arms weighted as they wrapped around her and held her to him. He rocked her as her ears filled with his soothing murmurings. His arms tightened around her when her hands slipped around his shoulders, Anne drawing comfort from his caring embrace, from how she felt as though she could feel his heartbeat keep rhythm with her own. She could feel his jacket soak beneath her cheek as her voice muffled against his neck.

“When does it get easier, Gilbert? When does the pain of it all go away?”

His palm ran the length of her back, fingers slipping along her spine as he consoled her. He licked his lips, swallowed back his own sorrow. “It doesn’t,” he said. “Not really. You just sort of get used to it until something reminds you of them, and you realise it still hurts as much as it ever did. And you feel guilty that you didn't feel it all that time. That you thought you’d healed. And then you numb again, and you can limp on for a little bit longer.”

“It’s exhausting sometimes,” Anne sniffed.

Gilbert hummed his agreement. “It is, but that’s the price you pay for love. So, I guess, in a weird way it’s worth it.”

He felt her pull away from him, her arms empty of her as he asked, “Would you rather never have known Matthew at all?”

She wiped her eyes. Shook her head. “Never.”

His smile was soft when he spoke. “Well then, he was worth it. And my dad was worth it. And your parents and my mom.”

A watery smile curved her mouth as she rubbed at her nose. She wiped the stray tears from her eyes. She laughed wetly. “God but am I a _downer."_

Gilbert shook his head. “Sometimes you need to let it out. I’m just glad I could be here to listen.”

As his eyes found hers, Anne felt like she understood him on a new level. Gilbert was, in ways, more kindred to her than Diana or Ruby. Something within him was split like the veil in the temple, his soul bearing the same scars as Anne’s.

She wiped the back of her hand against her cheek roughly, her expression becoming determined.

“Let’s make a pact,” she said.

Gilbert raised a brow. 

This would be the second deal he had made with Anne Shirley-Cuthbert. He felt something glimmer inside him, telling him he wanted to make more.

“And what’s that?” he asked.

“Let’s make a pact to live. You and me. Let’s have adventures. Because life is short and the world is wide, and I want to _see_ some of it before it’s over.”

He held out his hand, feeling her palm slide against his, the brush of it zinging up his arm, striking him right in the heart.

“Deal,” he said.

“You promise?”

There was an earnestness to his expression that shocked Anne, sending a tingle along her spine like a bolt of lightning. 

"I promise. Infinity times infinity."

His gaze was consuming. His words reverent. She could feel her heart thundering and she imagined he could hear it in the solitude of the meadow. Just them and the trees and the windows of the old house as witnesses to their pact. 

They shook firmly, Anne letting his hand fall as she lay back against the grass, Gilbert coming to join her. He felt his shoulder brush against hers as they watched the sky darken. He straightened his arm between them, wondering if that was a gasp he had heard as his hand grazed against the back of hers. His breath became laboured as he felt his pinkie finger lightly touch her skin. He wasn’t sure which of them had initiated it, if it was him or if it was Anne, but he could feel his pinkie finger curve as Anne’s twisted around it. 

He swallowed. He closed his eyes. He concentrated on the drumming of his heart.

He felt the pull of wading into something deep, waves of her washing over him and dragging him down, Gilbert drowning in Anne and all she was. His head battled the call he felt in the centre of his soul, his mind telling him to take his time. It was a passing fancy, nothing else. 

But his heart ached for more. It begged him to quieten his mind, close his eyes against Winnie and all that he had in Toronto... and listen to what it urged him to do. To let the words that tasted the tip of his tongue out into the open. Gilbert was afraid to do so, because saying them aloud made them real and he didn't know how it felt to be in love. He wasn't sure if he ever was. How could he make a decision when he didn't know? He just knew he wanted to be close to her. He knew she was someone he wanted to keep in his life. 

"Anne,” he whispered. "Anne."

“Hmm?" her eyes fluttered open, Anne’s face falling towards him.

His chest expanded with a breath, the air catching in his throat, as her gaze met his. Her eyes wide and expectant, twinkling pools of lavender in the soft glow of the setting sun. They flickered, Gilbert's mouth going dry as they dipped lower. He wondered if they had fallen to his lips. If that had been intentional. Her breath lapped upon him like waves against a shore. He felt his heart expand, quicken. He worried she would be able to hear it.

"I think you're my best friend." 

She stared at him, her expression unreadable, swirling with something obscured by the glare of the sun, but she didn’t push him away. When she spoke, her words were like the breath of a ghost; hushed and whispered. 

"I think you're mine."

She felt the heat of his hand on hers as his fingers, long and fine, curled around hers. Anne's gaze was cautious as his eyes fixed on hers, searching for a sign from her to stop him as he raised their entwined fingers to his lips, but Anne felt she couldn't. She didn't want to. His breath was as light as the breeze but it drew goosebumps to the surface of her skin like the air had become chilled. His gaze became heated, Anne's heart thundering, as he pressed a kiss to freckled skin. Dark lashes fluttered closed, his lips lingering a beat too long. Anne's skin blazed, Gilbert's kiss inked to her as a permanent part of her being. 

She heard herself gasp as his eyes opened once more, tender and warming. Anne warned herself that it wasn’t what it looked like. It couldn’t be. She snapped her eyes back to the sky, seeing the stars he loved so dearly begin to appear. She pressed her eyes closed and hoped he wasn’t watching her still as her hand returned to the grass, still tingling from his touch. She hoped he couldn’t see the lone tear that had escaped her lashes and now abseiled her cheek, disappearing into her hairline.

She felt an ache inside of her, a fullness and an emptiness all at once as a light bulb illuminated, wrenching her deepest secret from the depths she had buried it in. She could never share it with him when they spoke like this; Anne knew there was no possible way that he could feel the same because hadn't he made a promise not to, back in June when she had faced him across a bistro table and they called a reluctant truce. 

" _I’m not going to fall in love with you if that’s what you’re worried about."_

His words reverberated around her and Anne shut her eyes against them. 

Because to Anne, the moon suddenly had meaning and the sun sang a song. The stars seemed to whisper when they twinkled from the heavens above her and each stroke in the sky blazed brighter. 

It was terrifying. It was new. It felt like embarking on the biggest adventure she would ever go on. 

_Fuck._

_Was she falling in love with Gilbert Blythe?_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *And breathe*
> 
> We're done! Here comes the obligatory 'I'm never sure if this is exactly what I want and I'm riddled with doubt' message that comes with this story because I find myself perpetually challenged every single time I try to write it. I hope no-one is disappointed. (Also, apologies for the weird chapter glitch - I hope it hasn't put anyone off sharing thoughts!)
> 
> I am aware that Gilbert currently has the "emotional range of a teaspoon" (to quote Hermione Granger) but I once had a little head-canon that this Gilbert has high-functioning anxiety as well as a touch of imposter syndrome (as Kara said) and he did think he was happy until he realised he wasn't (CCPH described it as a fish not realising it needs water until it's taken out.) He will come to his senses pretty soon. He's just letting his head rule his heart at the moment, but hold out for him! 
> 
> Here's a fun little fact: this chapter was completely written and sent to be beta read with Paul still alive as the doorman of a nightclub but I realised that his dialogue was *very* similar to someone she has met already and the world only needs one Billy Andrews.... so I killed him. Haha! I have my reasons for his murder, which you will come to see. 
> 
> There are elements to this story that I knew would maybe be a little bit melancholic but Anne has suffered and is recovering from a trauma and I wanted Gilbert to be the person she opened up to about this. When I began this story, I planned that I wanted them to both be having a quarter life crisis and so they are kindred in ways that they had never initially considered. I thought facing a death of someone quite young would be the wake up call they both needed to encourage them to embrace life and all its magic once more. They are both shells of people and together they are filling back up. Or at least that's the plan. Whether it's done well or not is up to you!
> 
> Some general notes:  
> \- Purple Hyacinths mean "sorrow, forgiveness and regret." I felt this would be apt for Anne as I think she would feel guilt for not knowing about his death when they lived so close.  
> \- The poetry Anne quotes is from 'I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)' by E.E. Cummings  
> \- Here is a link to some [space nebulas](https://www.google.com/search?q=space+butterfly&tbm=isch&source=iu&ictx=1&fir=tvGPTxjTdcdVqM%252CfvCsniN7U0SjUM%252C_&vet=1&usg=AI4_-kTGnP4KFapzhh-GUiKH6d-vi_IDcQ&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjs7YPi34LvAhVTQMAKHUQbAxwQ_h0wAnoECBAQBw&biw=1366&bih=657#imgrc=tvGPTxjTdcdVqM) or 'space butterflies' that Gilbert references the clouds to look like, if you'd like to check them out. Big props to Kara for sending me the link (presumably with this story in mind) and to Lucas Jade Zumann who inspired this Gilbert to be a little bit of a rocket-man space nerd. I like it. I think he suits it well. 
> 
> Here's a little challenge or game, if anyone is up to it. If there is anything in particular you think may be fun or you might like to see, drop it in a comment below. I added a little easter egg for some friends into this one (hello to my jily stans!) and it might be fun to add a little suggestions from more readers! 
> 
> Lastly, just a huge thank you to you all for being so patient and for reading! Your thoughts and opinions always make my day, especially when I'm doubting myself. I am so nervous about this chapter and feel a bit out of practice, to be honest. It means the world that people take the time to read, leave kudos and are so kind with their comments. It's a little burst of joy that keeps me inspired and invested in telling this story when old writer's block or that niggle of self-doubt sets in. So thank you for that <3 
> 
> And thus, I'll draw to a close the longest notes ever known to AO3. You can come and chat on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/chaos_in_calm) or [Tumblr](https://beckybubbles.tumblr.com/) if you wish!
> 
> I hope everyone is safe, well and as happy as the world lets them be.  
> Much love and talk soon,  
> Becky xx
> 
> Ps. I really do think music peaked with the Shrek soundtrack x


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